White Silent People
by Enthusiastic Fish
Summary: Story written for the Obscure Ailments challenge. Tim centered. It's a bizarre romp through a rare and bizarre psychological disorder. Warning: This is pretty dark. 13 chapters. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I'm back to my usual Tim-centered fic with this story. It's a pretty dark story, my entry in the NFA Obscure Ailments challenge. Thus, I've given Tim a pretty obscure ailment and there's a lot of weird stuff in this story, but I've done a lot of research on it, and I've done my best to make it accurate, as always.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own NCIS and I don't make any money off my writing. Alas.

* * *

><p><strong>White Silent People<br>**by Enthusiastic Fish

"_Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent people we call the dead?"  
><em>_The Picture of Dorian Gray  
><em>_Oscar Wilde_

**Chapter 1**

It was impossible what happened. It wasn't supposed to be a shoot-out. It wasn't supposed to be anything but routine.

...and it was anything but routine.

...and before they knew it, Tim was reeling backward.

Tony would be the last to admit it, but he thought Tim was dead before he hit the ground. He couldn't even think of a time when he'd seen someone shot in the head who wasn't dead when he hit the ground. ...now, granted, he had mostly seen people shot in the head in movies, but still...

Ducky and Jimmy, who were cowering behind the crumbling rock wall, instantly moved out of cover and crawled toward Tim's unmoving body.

Gibbs tried to tell them to stay back (which told Tony that Gibbs thought he was dead, too), but nothing doing. They would not, they _could_ not leave their friend lying there.

Tony was focused on trying to kill (no, not disarm...not now that Tim was lying on the ground) the men who had opened fire on them while they were investigating a murder. He felt a grim satisfaction as he saw one of their attackers fall to the ground.

"Mr. Palmer, quickly, call for an ambulance, but warn them of the situation!"

The sentence burrowed through Tony's concentration.

_An ambulance? You don't need an ambulance for a dead person..._

If Ducky wanted an ambulance then...

Tim was still alive! ...and the EMTs couldn't get to him to help him while this was going on. He redoubled his efforts.

Ziva seemed to have come to the same conclusion and she got another of their attackers.

There was only one left, and Gibbs decided to make it a clean sweep.

"Ziva, come with me to check them," he said after the bullets stopped flying.

Ziva nodded and the two of them headed over, with Tony reluctantly covering them while mostly conscious of the activity going on behind him.

"Keep him still, Mr. Palmer. We don't want to jostle him at all. Keep the pressure consistent."

"Yes, doctor. I don't see an exit wound."

"Nor do I. The bullet must be lodged somewhere inside. Nevertheless, we will have to keep him alive until the ambulance arrives."

"Yes, Dr. Mallard. Can we?"

"Absolutely. I refuse to accept it to be otherwise."

"They're dead, Tony!" Gibbs said.

"Good," Tony muttered and instantly turned around to see what was happening behind him.

Tim looked dead. Even with Ducky and Jimmy trying to stop the bleeding, Tim was not moving. He was so still. There wasn't as much blood as he'd thought there would be.

"He's alive?" Tony whispered, almost afraid of the answer.

"Yes, Anthony...and as long as the ambulance arrives soon, he may stay that way."

"Anything I can do?"

"Not at the moment."

That was disappointing...but Tony had no idea what he might be able to do beyond stand there.

He looked over toward Ziva and Gibbs. Gibbs was on the phone, probably calling in for help. Ziva was coming to join him.

"Well?" she asked.

"He's alive. I don't know how."

She just nodded without speaking, but her hand strayed to the Star of David on her neck. Her lips began moving silently. A prayer.

Tony wasn't particularly religious himself, but he was sending a few prayers of his own heavenward.

_...of all the people it could have hit, don't let McGee die. He doesn't deserve something like this._

The ambulance was there after what seemed an interminable time but was really less than five minutes. Jimmy left with the EMTs, helping them keep Tim as stable as possible. Ducky remained behind.

"Ducky?" Gibbs asked.

"I don't know, Jethro. I really don't know. Timothy was alive and breathing, but how long that state will last? I just don't know. It depends entirely on the damage caused by the bullet. It obviously missed the major blood vessels, but Timothy could suffer from hemorrhages or ischemia or herniations in his brain. Even if he survives, he could be brain damaged. There is too much that could go wrong for me to even hazard a guess as to what the outcome of this will be."

"How long will it take for us to find out?" Tony asked.

"I also can't answer that, Anthony. If he pulls through, it will likely be many hours before we know. This is one case when no news is good news...at least for a while."

"How did this happen?" Ziva asked, staring at the bloodstain from where Tim had fallen. "This should _not_ have happened!"

"But it did," Gibbs said. "As soon as Lovitz gets here, we're turning this over to him."

"Fine by me," Tony said.

It took some time, but a few hours later, they were waiting at the hospital for news.

...and it was many hours before they got any information.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The doctor came out, his face grave, but not so much that it meant Tim had died. Everyone quickly stood up.

"How is Tim?" Abby asked, instantly. "Is he okay? Did he die?"

The doctor smiled and shook his head.

"No. Agent McGee is still alive. He survived, but he's currently in a coma. We'll be monitoring him. There's been some swelling on his brain. We stopped what we could and now we're making sure that it doesn't get any worse. Once the swelling goes down, he'll be much more likely to wake up."

"Can we see him?"

"Only for ten minutes. We're keeping him in the ICU until he stabilizes."

"What's going to happen?" Tony asked.

"We're not sure yet. The bullet caused quite a bit of damage even though it missed the major vessels. It's a miracle he survived to reach the hospital. It's going to be hard going."

"But we can go in for a few minutes?" Gibbs asked.

"Yes. Come this way."

They all walked into the ICU and saw their friend. Tim's head was bandaged, but, if you could ignore the machines, he looked like he was asleep.

...but you couldn't ignore the machines. They were helping keep Tim alive, helping monitor what was going on in his head. You couldn't forget they were there. You didn't even _want_ to because of their importance.

Abby stifled a sob and then walked over and kissed Tim's bandaged forehead.

"Get better, Tim," she whispered. "You need to get better. I miss you already."

They stayed for as long as they were allowed...and then, they left. They had no other option. They just hoped that Tim would wake up. He had to wake up. This kind of thing didn't happen to Tim. It happened to Gibbs, but not to Tim.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Two weeks later..._

Tim opened his eyes and wondered why he had. He didn't know what was going on. This wasn't right. He looked around...and started to sit up, but found himself tethered to the bed.

Bed?

He felt his chest rising and falling, but that wasn't right, either.

Someone came into the room and he looked at her.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

"Agent McGee. You're awake!"

Awake? No. He wasn't awake. There was a film over everything. There was a separation.

"I'll go and get your doctor. Just stay calm and don't move."

Tim tried to sit up again. Why couldn't he get up? What was going on? Where was he? What was wrong with him?

_Think. Think. Think._

What was the last thing he remembered?

He lifted one of his hands and turned it over, palm up. Then, without really thinking about it, he raised it to his head.

The bullet. Screaming through the air, tearing into his head...into his brain. A bullet.

A bullet.

"Agent McGee?"

He brought his hand down and stared at his palm. No blood.

No blood? Why not? Where was his blood?

His hand started to shimmer and morph. It wasn't right.

"Agent McGee, can you hear me?"

Who was calling him? Where was the voice coming from? He lowered his hand and slowly peered through the film over his world. A man was standing there. He was there...but where was _there_?

"Agent McGee. You're in a hospital. You were shot two weeks ago. Do you remember?"

Tim blinked at the man. None of this was right. He looked around and tried to get up again. Instantly, he was prevented. Why?

No blood.

His mind went back to that thick film. He tried to understand what was happening. Slowly, he lifted his strange hand and reached out with it toward that film. His hand shimmered as it passed through. ...but it didn't touch the man.

"Agent McGee. I'm your doctor. Dr. Khalid. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

Tim squinted through the film. He tried to see what there was to see, but he couldn't. His hand had passed through, but it hadn't touched anything on the other side of it. A curtain. A veil.

A complete separation.

He tried to bring his mind to bear on what he was seeing, what he was experiencing. There were things touching him. Sounds he didn't recognize. Sudden lights. Then, a moment of extreme discomfort and a tube pulled from his throat. Why a tube? Why? What was this place?

Suddenly, other people were there. Crying. What did it mean? He recognized them, but they seemed so far away, so distant...and how had they come there? How did they get there so fast? Or was it fast? Was it, in fact, something else?

Then, it was dark. He was alone. Where had they gone? What had happened? Why was he there still? Carefully, slowly, he lifted his hand again and touched his head.

No blood.

Then, he looked around the empty room again.

No one was there to hear his first words. Soft and slurred as they were.

"I'm...dead."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Dr. Khalid was used to dealing with grieving families. He was used to people who didn't understand how the human brain functioned, what brain trauma could lead to. Some people never fully recovered. Some of his patients ended up with severe personality shifts.

...but even he could admit that his latest case was a bit out of the ordinary...but not for the reasons the others were thinking. For one thing, Tim was too alert, but at the same time he was completely disconnected from the world around him. Still, he smiled as he looked at Tim's friends and family.

"You need to remember that Agent McGee has only been conscious for a day."

"But...he didn't even seem to notice us!"

"Mrs. McGee, your son was shot in the head. We had to perform surgery to remove the bullet. The surgery alone could have killed him since the initial shot didn't. He had bleeding that could have killed him. He's been in a coma...and to be frank, I'm surprised he woke up at all."

Dr. Khalid could see the shock in almost all the faces in the room. A couple of the people here seemed only resigned to the problems that faced them.

"We're still evaluating whether or not further surgery will be needed to resolve the residual bleeding. If we can avoid meddling any more than we already have in his head, it will likely be better, but if the pressure doesn't ease on its own, we will have to try something else to stop it. So far, the pressure has been easing on its own, but we have no guarantee of that trend continuing as yet. We're going to have to tread very carefully if Agent McGee is going to have any chance of recovering."

"Dr. Khalid, there's something you've not told us, isn't there."

"Dr. Mallard, correct?"

"Yes."

Dr. Khalid smiled and nodded. "Yes. I actually haven't seen a case like your son's before. His reactions are not those of someone who is simply confused in the way many people are upon waking from a coma. It's not even commensurate with typical brain trauma. This is something else, and I actually don't know what it is yet. It's going to take time. Again, Agent McGee has only been conscious for a day. That's hardly enough time to figure out the issue at hand."

"How long _will_ be enough?"

"I'm not sure, Mr. McGee. Any kind of trauma to the brain has to be approached on an individual basis."

"What do we do, then?"

Ah, back to solid ground. Dr. Khalid knew how to answer this question. It came up a lot.

"Just be there for him. At this stage, all you can do is be there. Don't let yourself get discouraged if he seems strange right now. ...and be ready to accept it if there is some permanent damage."

They didn't like hearing that, but then, no one ever did. Dr. Khalid didn't like having to say it, but it was something important to convey at the outset. No sense in building up hopes only to have them dashed.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Agent McGee, how are you feeling this morning?"

Tim blinked and stared.

"You...see...me?" The words came slowly. They sounded strange in his ears, and still, there was that separation. He touched his head again.

"Of course, I see you, Agent McGee." There was faint smile. "I've been seeing you since you were brought here. I'm Dr. Khalid. I introduced myself to you yesterday. Do you remember?"

Tim took irregular breaths. There were strange swirling sensations, like he was falling down a drain, pulling him away...further away from the world...and toward what?

"What's wrong, Agent McGee?"

He saw, almost in a vision, the bullet flying at him. No way to avoid it. He knew it was over. Everything slowed down, and he watched the agent of his death come closer and closer...and then slam into him with the force of a freight train.

He became conscious of something over his face. Why? What was it? He was being held down. He was being kept in one place. Once again, he touched his head.

"Tim?"

He blinked again and saw his mother. It was like a kind of memory, like when he'd awakened after his car accident. That happened when one died, didn't it? Life flashing before one's eyes. In which case...

A hand, almost feeling real, touched his face. He thought he felt a kiss on his cheek.

"Tim, we're right here. Can you hear me?"

His breathing was loud...disturbing...not right. Everything was off-kilter. ...but what did he expect, really? Why would things make sense as they had when he'd been alive? He lifted his hands and stared at them. They were wrong somehow, but he wasn't sure what it was about them. Too pale? How long had he been dead?

"How...long..." He breathed out the words.

"It's been two weeks, Tim."

"Dead..."

"No! No, Tim. You didn't die. It's a miracle, but you survived."

They believed he was alive...but how could that be with this veil over the world? How could that be with everything feeling wrong? Everything was off. Nothing was right. That wasn't how the living world was. He was grafted into the world. Dead amongst the living.

He lifted his hand again and touched his palm to his forehead, to the place where the bullet had pounded into his brain...where it had torn apart his head and killed him.

"Tim?"

He hated this feeling...this wrongness. What was he going to do about it?

He tried to get up again, but once more, he was held down.

"McGee, you must stay still. You must stay in your bed."

Another voice. Another sudden appearance from the living world. Why hadn't he gone on? If this was death, he didn't like it. There had to be more...some passage from the living world to beyond. He tried to explain to the voice.

"Died...weeks..."

Movement, a shaking head.

"No way, Probie. You didn't. You wouldn't die. Not even a bullet could slow you down. You're going to be okay...eventually."

His breathing still felt wrong. He shouldn't need to breathe as a dead person anyway.

The swirling caught him again and pulled at him, tearing him away from the world and into oblivion...but no, he didn't go all the way. The swirling stopped and left him back, the uneasy dead graft. He thought he saw others walking around for a moment, but then, they were gone.

World...tipping...turning over...spilling out the dead and they fell...and Tim fell with them.

Down...down...down...spinning and swirling...and falling.

...and then the world right again...and he was still there. He was stuck. The rest of the dead fell away, but he was left behind.

A gentle hand. He blinked through the haze and the darkness...and saw an angel.

"It's all right. Calm down. You're just dreaming. Whatever it is, it's not real. Just a dream."

He looked at the angel.

"...with...you...please..."

"No, you need to stay here and get better, Agent McGee, but I'll check in on you in a little while."

He reached out a hand toward the angel, begging silently for mercy, for release from this imbalance. A hand touched his for a moment, but then, it was gone.

Tim touched his head again, this time with one hand covering the other and both covering his bandaged head.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"What happened, Angela?" Dr. Khalid asked.

Angela, the nurse on the night shift, looked back. She'd grown fond of Tim's visitors and so felt a vested interest in Tim's recovery. He was sitting up in bed...more or less...with both hands covering the exact spot where he'd been shot.

"I don't know. I think he was dreaming. At least, he'd seemed to be asleep before he started whimpering. I wish I knew what it was that he was seeing when he looks at me. His friends and family say that he's implied that he's dead more than once."

"Hmm...All right. I'll talk with some of my colleagues...see if we can figure this out."

"I don't think I've ever seen anyone like this, Dr. Khalid."

"I haven't either...and I _know_ that I haven't. This is...to be callous, bizarre. Make sure that whoever is on duty keeps a close eye on him. He's at once too alert and not alert enough, and that could lead to problems if he takes it into his head to try and walk."

"I'll make note of it."

"Good. I'll see what I can find out. Thanks, Angela."

Angela smiled but then looked into the room again. Tim had leaned back again, his hands by his sides again, but he wasn't asleep. He was staring at the ceiling, still with that strange arrhythmic breathing. She decided to check on him once more before continuing her rounds.

He clearly could hear because he always reacted when people came into the room. He saw _something_, but what that was, who knew. She walked over to the bed and his bright green eyes locked onto her.

"...angel...heaven..."

Angela smiled. He must have heard her name or seen her tag.

"...take...with...you..."

"You can't leave your bed right now, Agent McGee, but I'll sit here if that will help."

"Tilting...spill out...dead...quiet...all around..."

She had no idea what he was trying to say, if indeed, there was anything comprehensible in it at all. ...but there was that word again.

"You're not dead, Agent McGee. You're injured, but you're healing." That much was true. In the few days since he'd awakened, the gradual easing of pressure was continuing in his brain. It was a slow process, but the fact that his brain was healing itself was encouraging, even if Tim's current mental patterns weren't.

That pitiful hand reached out. Angela took it and held it gently.

"I'm right here, Agent McGee. You're all right. You're safe."

"I'm dead..." he said and his eyes closed...but his vital signs didn't change at all. Everything remained the same...and yet, here was a definite declaration.

What did it all mean?


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_Two weeks later..._

After another week, Tim suddenly became more coherent...but no less disturbing for all that. The swelling had continued to go down and Dr. Khalid was pleased with that, but as Tim was able to speak more, what he said was more concerning. He had declared that he was dead, and no amount of persuasion so far had convinced him otherwise.

During the night, when he was alone, he slept but would have nightmares that caused him great distress. They seemed to solidify his belief in his death. All Dr. Khalid could do was encourage those caring about Tim's well-being to have hope that this would pass.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim didn't like it when people came to visit. Tony could see it in his face, now that he was staying awake longer than a few minutes at a time. Tim's eyes would drift away from whoever was there, as if he was surprised to see the trappings of his hospital room. Still...Tony tried to stay upbeat. It was hard to deal with it...and it must be even harder for Tim. He was trying to be understanding, but at the same time he found it hard to believe that Tim could be so certain he was dead.

"Hey, McGee. How you feeling today?" he asked and then winced inwardly at the false heartiness in his voice.

Tim blinked at him. That was depressingly normal. He didn't seem to know what to do when being addressed directly.

Was this better than Tim dying on impact? Tony wanted to say no, but at the same time...he wasn't sure. If Tim was stuck like this for the rest of his life, would that really be better for him?

Tim silently put his palm on his head again. He did that a lot. He would leave it there for a few seconds and then pull it down and stare at it in confusion.

"Tim?"

Tim raised his eyes to Tony and tilted his head to the side.

"Why can you see me?" he asked.

"Because you're not dead, Tim. You're just injured and you're getting better. We've told you that a lot of times already."

"But it's not true. I'm dead."

"No, you're not!"

"Everything is separate. It's all wrong. You're far away...through it."

"Through what?"

Tim smiled faintly. "You can't see it if you're alive. Only the...the dead like me."

"Tim, you're not dead! Whatever it is you're seeing is just because you're still getting better. It has nothing to do with..."

Tim leaned back and closed his eyes. He wasn't sleeping, but Tony could tell he didn't like the conversation. He sighed in frustration. Part of the reason this was so difficult was that Tim didn't look like he _should_ be thinking he was dead. Sure, he was a bit pale. Sure, he still had the stitches from his brain surgery, but he didn't have any other marks on him. ...and it was disconcerting to realize that there was still something so screwed up in his head.

Suddenly, Tim cried out wordlessly and both hands grabbed the sides of the bed...and then, he went completely limp...breathing shaking breaths.

"What happened, Tim? What is it?"

"I'm dead. I'm dead. Don't you understand?"

"If you're dead, how are you still here talking to me?"

"I don't know why they won't let me leave! I wish they would. I hate it. I hate this feeling."

"What feeling?"

"Everything is wrong. It's all off. No one looks right. Nothing feels right. Everything is _wrong_."

"That's just because you're not...not healed yet, Probie. It's not because..."

Tim suddenly opened his eyes and looked at Tony directly. This was when Tim was the most disturbing actually...because this was when he looked the most normal and yet was very _not_ normal.

"Do you think this happened to Kate? She got shot in the head. You said she'd have a hole the size of a grapefruit in the back of her head. I saw her, you know. Around the building. In Abby's lab. In the drawer. And she talked to me...but when she was in Autopsy, she was dead. Do you think that's where I need to go to be dead? Maybe then, they'll let me go?"

"No!" Of all the comparisons Tim could make, he did _not_ want Tim comparing himself to Kate. "No, McGee. Kate died. She was never alive after she got shot. You didn't die!"

"Yes, I did." Tim moved his head in odd motions from side to side, as if he was searching for the right angle. He was no longer looking at Tony. "I got out of cover. I thought that it would be better if I was..." He took one of those strange deep breaths that seemed to be normal for him. "...closer to Ducky and Jimmy...give them some protection...they're not armed...ever...not that I..." His voice trailed off and his eyes started to roll up in his head...and then he blinked and continued. "...and I knew as soon as I took a step...I turned. I saw it. It was like slow...motion...stuff. And it hit me...and I died."

"No, you didn't!"

The door opened and Tony turned around to see who it was. Dr. Khalid.

"Good morning, Agent DiNozzo. Good morning, Agent McGee. I expected to see your family here."

"Maybe they're deciding where to bury me. I'm going to rot away soon. It's been a long time," Tim said. He held up his hands and looked at them with the same strange expression. "They don't look right."

"I doubt that's where they are since you're still alive, Agent McGee."

"No."

"It's true. You are...but I won't belabor the point at the moment."

Tim didn't seem to be paying attention anymore. He was staring at his hands, rubbing his fingers together, looking perplexed.

"This place is wrong," he muttered.

"What was that?" Dr. Khalid asked.

"This place. It's wrong. I don't like it. Where am I?"

"The hospital, Agent McGee. You're in Washington Hospital Center."

Tim had started shaking his head before Dr. Khalid had finished.

"No. This isn't right. It looks like it _could_ be, but it's not. It's wrong."

"What's wrong about it?" Dr. Khalid asked patiently.

For not the first time, Tony marveled at Dr. Khalid's patience with something that could get very frustrating. It was only frustrating because Tony felt like it would be too frightening if he didn't let it frustrate him.

"I don't...it doesn't fit. Everything's the wrong shape. Doesn't fit together. It's just _wrong_!"

"All right, Agent McGee. I have someone who'd like to talk with you about all this. Do you mind?"

"There was an angel. I asked her to take me with her...but she didn't. She said I had to stay. Am I in Hell?"

"No. You're not."

"Feels like I am."

"But you're not. You're alive, and you're most definitely not in Hell."

Tim just leaned back and closed his eyes again.

"Agent DiNozzo, why don't you come with me."

Tony gave Tim one last look and sighed. Then, he got to his feet and followed Dr. Khalid out into the hallway.

"How long is he going to be like this?" Tony asked, hating the plaintive note in his voice.

"I can't tell you that," Dr. Khalid said honestly and looked over at a doctor standing just a few feet away. "Just wait a moment, please. Dr. Gingras?"

"Ready for me, is he?"

"I don't know if he's ready, but you can go in."

"What's up?" Tony asked as Dr. Gingras went into Tim's room.

"I have to discuss this with Agent McGee's parents first. Family privilege, you understand, but after some lengthy discussions with my colleagues and some reading, we have some ideas about what may be going on."

"Does that mean you'll know how to treat him?"

"I wish it were that simple, Agent DiNozzo. Unfortunately, there's no clear path in this situation. But putting a name to what's going on will help us decide what to try next."

Tony usually tried to keep up his macho performance no matter what...but he shook his head and looked back toward the closed door.

"I thought...he was dead when he hit the ground. I thought that there was no way in the world McGee would survive getting shot in the head. A friend...she...she was killed like that, only with sniper's rifle, not just a 9-mm. We waited for two weeks for him to wake up. Then...we find that...that _he_ doesn't think he could have survived either. ...and more than that, he says he's _dead_. It doesn't make any sense."

"Not to you, but it does to him."

"How can you be so calm?"

Dr. Khalid smiled. "Because this isn't my friend, my brother, my son. Agent McGee is my patient, and I have lots of patients. This is my job, Agent DiNozzo. I care about Agent McGee's well-being, but not in the same way you do. It's my job to keep my head on straight and focus on solving the mystery when there's a mystery to be solved...as there is in this case. Keep in mind that brain damage can be permanent. There's no guarantee either way. What we _do_ have going for us in this case is that Agent McGee seems to be recovering from the initial injury. He's very lucky in that respect. If we can get a handle on what's driving this delusion he has, we may be able to get back his old self. We _may_."

"No absolutes, huh?"

"Never in neuromedicine. The only absolutes are the negative ones...so we prefer to ignore those and deal with the possibilities." Dr. Khalid smiled.

Tony returned the smile reluctantly. He understood, but it didn't mean he liked it.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The door closed and Dr. Gingras was gone. Tim could not understand why everyone was so insistent that he was alive when it was patently obvious that he was dead. Now, they told him he was in DC, but he didn't feel like he was.

There was a window. Tim wondered where it had come from. He'd never seen it before. He hadn't bothered to get out of bed yet. Why would he? ...but this window hadn't been there before, had it? Tim wasn't sure of that.

Regardless, he sat up and then dangled his legs over the end of the bed. His head spun unpleasantly and there was an ache that formed right behind his eyes as he tried to stand. There was a shimmering all around him as he took his first faltering steps. He had to hold onto the railing on the bed to keep himself from losing his balance...but he persisted. He grabbed the frame of the window and looked through the shimmering wall out the window.

It was like someone had taken DC and changed it. Maybe it wasn't actually DC. Maybe they were trying to tell him it was. It didn't look right. It was _almost_ right, but not quite. Everything was still off. The other doctor had tried to talk to him about it, but there weren't words really for how it all felt. How did one describe how it felt to be dead? All these people passing around him like shadows. He wasn't part of them. He was separate. Separate and alone, but at the same time, stuck in the world with nowhere to go.

...but here was evidence that he wasn't where he thought he was. This wasn't DC. DC wasn't this place. Someone had _tried_ to make it look like DC, but it wasn't. The shimmering took over his vision completely...and he couldn't see.

...and he was running toward Ducky and Jimmy, trying to protect them...and there was a bullet flying toward him. It hit him...knocked him backward.

...and there were hands holding him up.

"McGee!"

"Timothy. What are you doing out of bed?"

That moment of being shot. That moment of feeling the bullet. He had taken a breath. Just one. That had been all there was time for. One last breath before...

"Get him onto the bed, Jethro. He's in no state to be standing for long periods of time. I'm surprised he was standing at all."

He was horizontal again. That made sense. Why would a corpse be walking around?

The shimmering started to recede, and Tim felt a quick spasm.

"It's all wrong. All...not...here."

"What do you mean, Timothy?"

Tim didn't bother to answer. Why explain? This place wasn't DC. Maybe these weren't even the people he knew. They didn't look right either. This shimmering veil. Maybe it would vanish if he found the right place. Maybe he could go with the angel if he found the real place. She'd said he had to stay where he was, but maybe she didn't think he could make it. Standing was hard for him to do...but...there was a bus...a Greyhound not far from where he lived in Silver Spring...if it was the real one. Maybe even the fake one would have it.

"Timothy?"

Ducky...he'd tried to help Ducky. Maybe he'd failed. Maybe Ducky had died, too. He looked at him...but no, he looked strange like the others.

"I died. Did you?" he asked.

"No, Timothy. Neither of us died."

"I didn't want to, but it was too hard to move. And it hit. Like Kate. Right in the head. Everything exploded and I died."

"McGee, you didn't die."

Tim found himself looking into concerned blue eyes...but they were too close and they frightened him. He raised one hand and then suddenly touched his forehead again. The bandages were gone, but still no blood.

"_McGee! Stay down!"_

"_There's no cover for Ducky and Jimmy!"_

"_They have enough! Stay down until we can figure out where these guys are."_

"_Boss, look at them! They can't shoot back. They can't get back to the truck."_

"Sorry...sorry..." He started to whimper.

"For what, McGee?"

"Stay down...didn't...died."

"You didn't die, and you were right. Those shots could have got them. You were right, McGee...and you didn't die. You're still alive."

Tim pulled his hand down from his head and looked at his forearm.

"I can see the veins. Skin's rotting away."

"No, it's not."

The air shimmered again and Tim closed his eyes. This was intolerable. He hated every moment of the time he was stuck here.

"You're not right. You're not right. All is wrong. Everything...everyone. Why won't they take me away?"

He tried to sit up, to get up, but they kept him in place.

"Agent Gibbs? Dr. Mallard?"

More sudden voices. Appearing from memories...

"Mom...tell them I'm dead."

"You're not, Tim."

"When will you bury me?"

"You're not dead. Agent Gibbs...could we speak with you for a moment?"

"Of course."

Tim cracked open an eyelid as he heard the door open and close.

Open...close. The door opened and closed. He should be able to do that. His hands weren't rotted away yet. For whatever reason, he was stuck in his body, even though he was dead. He could get out and find the right place to leave from.

...but not when people were around. Those strange people who had been his friends and family...they kept holding him here. Better just to get away. Completely away...but in the darkness.

He closed his eyes and tried to wait.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

There was a moment of surprised silence...which was broken by Abby.

"Tim has..._what_?"

Naomi smiled weakly. "According to Dr. Khalid, it's called the Cotard delusion. It's when a person believes they're dead. Some people think they're being punished in Hell. Others see their skin rotting, even think they _smell_ it. Some just think that they've died and for some reason haven't been allowed to move on. But the big thing about it is a belief in one's death."

"There's a whole..." Tony didn't know the word he was looking for. "It has a _name_? Other people have had this happen to them?"

Sam nodded. "Believe it or not, it was first diagnosed in the 19th century. The first patient, diagnosed by Dr. Cotard...she died of starvation."

"Whoa...how?"

"She believed she was dead. There was no reason to feed a dead body. They couldn't get her to eat."

"How is it caused?" Ducky asked.

"There's still a lot of uncertainty about that, unfortunately," Sam said. "The psychiatrists' theories run the gamut from brain trauma to depression to schizophrenia. There's too much they don't understand as yet because it's extremely rare."

"But trauma _can _cause it?"

"So they say. Actually, that's what Dr. Khalid is hoping for."

"_Hoping_?" Ziva asked. "He is hoping for more damage?"

"Not for more, but that it's due to areas in Tim's brain that still need to heal...because that means that when they do heal, Tim will recover from the delusion. But until then..."

"...he will keep believing...that he is dead."

"Exactly."

"What do we do?" Gibbs asked.

"Keep on as we are. Keep visiting him. Keep reinforcing the fact that he survived. Other than that...there's really nothing we can do. Dr. Khalid wants to discuss possible treatments with antipsychotics, but he wants to do some more research before recommends anything in particular. Sometimes, those drugs have worse side effects than what they treat."

"What if it's not because of his injury?" Abby asked. "Then, what?"

"Then...it's harder." Naomi's mouth twisted a bit. "In other countries, they've had some success with electroshock therapy, but..."

"Electroshock?" Tony echoed. "Are you kidding?"

Sam took Naomi's hand and held it tightly. "We've been told that it's not as barbaric as Hollywood makes it seem but...still, it's rarely used in this country anymore and...and we'd only even _consider_ it as a last resort. ...but...we don't know how long it will take for this to...to go away."

There was a long silence and then Ducky got to his feet and walked over to the McGees. He took Naomi's hand in his own.

"Your son more than likely saved my life when he was injured. I will be forever grateful to him, and I'm sorry that there are so many adverse events following from his courageous actions."

Naomi's eyes glistened with unshed tears. "No, Dr. Mallard. You don't have to apologize. Tim would...he would never have forgiven himself if you'd been hurt when he could prevent it. This isn't your fault...and...and we have hope that something will happen to improve Tim's condition. He's _alive_, and I would never have expected him to survive. ...and I'm also sure that it is at least partly due to your quick actions...in the midst of a firefight, no less."

"Neither Mr. Palmer nor myself could have left Timothy lying on the ground as he was."

"Where is he?" Sam asked. "I've seen him a couple of times but never really had a chance to talk to him, to _thank_ him for all he did for Tim."

Ducky looked around and then smiled. "I will let him know that you wish to express your gratitude. For now, I would like to look in on Timothy once more before leaving for the evening...if you don't mind."

"Not at all. We're...picking up Tim's sister from the airport," Naomi said. "It's been really hard on her. I'm not sure if knowing what's wrong will help her, but maybe it will. We want to explain things to her before she comes here again."

Ducky excused himself from the small gathering and headed for Tim's room. When he got there, Jimmy was standing in the hall, looking through the door at Tim. He was making no move to enter.

"Mr. Palmer, the door does work."

Jimmy didn't respond to the mild joke. He just stared at Tim.

"What do you think it's like for him? McGee...he's been sitting there day after day thinking that he died. Everything he's said makes it sound like he hates it, like...like it would be better if he really _was_ dead." Jimmy looked away from the window and met Ducky's gaze. "Dr. Mallard...he's like this because he was trying to protect us! I've known people who _wished_ they were dead, but I've never known a person who was...who felt like he _was_ dead and couldn't do anything about it! ...I mean...if he was dead, he wouldn't be worrying about what to do. He wouldn't be worrying at all really, but...but this isn't fair!"

"Of course, it's not, Mr. Palmer."

"It's not right! He was doing the right thing and...and he's like this!"

Ducky walked over and turned Jimmy back toward the window.

"Take another look, lad. Do you know what I see?"

"I'm sure I don't, Dr. Mallard. You see lots of stuff I definitely don't."

"And don't you forget it. ...but I see a man who has been fortunate enough to survive something that is generally fatal. Physically, he's much better off than I had thought he even had a _chance_ of being. When we found that he was still alive, I didn't think he'd make it to the hospital. When he did, I didn't think he'd wake from his coma. When he did that, I wondered what kind of brain function he'd have. I am finding that Timothy is constantly surprising me. I'm ready to be surprised once more. ...and there is a chance that he could break through this delusion. We don't know yet what the results will be, but there's definitely a chance, even a good one."

"I've never had someone...do that for me, Dr. Mallard," Jimmy said finally. "I've never had anyone...almost die to save me. I've never _needed_ that...and I don't like it."

"I don't either, truth be told, but whether I like it or not, my life was likely saved by Timothy's actions. I am choosing to be grateful for his sacrifice. I am choosing to look on the positive side and hope for the best. I'm not saying that it's easy, but I prefer it."

"I don't know if I can. I've...I've only gone in there a couple of times, but...I look at him and think that it's my fault he's there."

"It's not. You and I were doing our jobs. Those who deserve the blame are all dead. They have received their punishment. Too quickly for my taste, but they have. They are the guilty ones. It's useless for you and I to take the blame on ourselves simply because we were where we were supposed to be."

Jimmy was silent for a moment.

"Do you think Tim sees dead people?"

"What?"

Jimmy flushed at how it sounded. "I mean does he _think_ he sees dead people? Or is it just that _he's_ dead?"

"I don't know. What I _do_ know is that he's scheduled for another CT scan this evening which will hopefully shed some light on the inner workings of his brain. His doctors are discussing possible treatments, and his family is not giving up hope, although they are understandably upset. They wish to thank you."

Jimmy shook his head. "No, doctor. I...I couldn't let them thank me for...for this."

Ducky put a companionable arm around Jimmy's shoulders. "Mr. Palmer, you aren't letting them express gratitude for _your_ sake, but for theirs. They see, in us, a positive result of a horrible situation. By seeing you and saying thank you, they are affirming that Timothy's situation didn't happen for no reason. This is one case where gratitude is not about what you did or did not do. Your _surviving_ is what matters. So...swallow your feelings of guilt and let them have that small comfort of knowing what their son did for you."

Jimmy looked at Tim again. His eyes were closed. He was still rather pale. The stitches were very obviously marking the place where the bullet had penetrated his skull. He twitched and then became still again. To Jimmy, it was almost like another person was lying in the bed...as if Tim had been replaced by a stranger.

"Come, Jimmy. We may be able to catch the McGees before they leave for the airport."

Ducky urged him away from the door.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Agent McGee?"

The voice penetrated the horror and Tim woke up with a start. He looked around, confused. Where was he? This place was different. It wasn't what he expected.

The angel was back. She was smiling gently at him.

"You drifted off while we were transferring you to the CT room," she said.

Tim looked at her, the words washing over him meaninglessly.

"Why won't you take me with you? I don't want to stay."

She smiled at him again. "We're just giving you another CT scan. We need to see how your brain is functioning."

"It's not!" he said. "It can't function if I'm dead!"

"That's very true, but you're not dead."

"Yes, I am! Please...let me go with you!"

"Go where?"

"Heaven."

"I'm not an angel. My name is Angela. I'm one of the nurses on shift in the evenings."

Tim touched his forehead again. He could feel the spot where the bullet had gone into his head.

"Why did you put stitches in my head? Tony said that all Kate would need was a little mortuary putty in her forehead. The back...couldn't be fixed, but you didn't have to look at that. Why use stitches?"

Tim really wanted to understand why all these people who supposedly cared about him were leaving him to rot inside his own body after he'd died. Couldn't they just let him go?

"We used stitches because you survived the gunshot, Agent McGee...and once we extracted the bullet, we had to stitch it up."

Finally, the frustration was too much. Tim started to cry.

"I hate being here. I hate being like this. Why can't I just be dead like everyone else? Why can't I just die and be buried? What did I do wrong? What did I do to deserve being stuck like this?"

There were arms around his decaying body. He was surprised that anyone would want to touch his dead flesh.

"Agent McGee, you didn't do anything wrong."

"Yes, I did. I disobeyed an order. I came out of cover. ...and I died for it...but I didn't think it was that bad a crime. I didn't think that I'd be punished like this."

"You're not being punished, Agent McGee. You're being helped."

"No! No, this isn't helping!"

"Yes, it is. I know you don't see it, but it's true. You're not being punished for anything. On the contrary, everyone really wants you to get better."

"You can't get better from being dead."

"No, that's true, but you _can_ get better from _thinking_ you are when you're not."

Tim just shook his head hopelessly. Even the angel wasn't interested in helping him. Even she was insisting that he had to stay here. It was up to him to get out on his own.

"Now, Agent McGee, can you stay still while we give you the scan?"

Tim didn't see a point in answering. He just lay on the table and stared up. A dead person didn't need to move. Maybe if he stayed still enough, his body would crumble to dust and set his spirit free.

"Exactly. Just stay in that position while we take the scan. It may get a little uncomfortable..."

Tim just laughed. Uncomfortable? He was completely uncomfortable every second that he was stuck here.

A noise started up and he was lying in a small tube. What kind of a scan could they get from a decaying brain?

He wanted to run away, but he could tell that they wouldn't let him. He would have to figure out how to get out of this place and out into the world. Maybe that would help. He wished that someone would actually _help_ him, but if he had to be on his own, he would do that until he could finally get out of his body.

Tim just wanted to be free of the torment of his death.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

_One week later..._

The CT scan had shown some lesions, and Dr. Khalid had added a course of antibiotics to Tim's regimen to fight off an infection, but he didn't want to subject Tim to more brain surgery when he seemed to be healing fairly well on his own.

It was just that his delusion of his own death wasn't ebbing...and as he continued to recover, he got more frustrated and seemed almost _pained_ by the fact that he was forced to stay in the hospital and forced to stay alive...even if he didn't believe that he was. He had started to question where he was and asked multiple times a day why someone had built a replica of Washington D.C. and why he was there.

This had led to a revisiting of the idea of giving Tim some kind of medication that might get rid of the obsession with his death, at least temporarily until his brain healed. It wasn't the perfect solution, but there _was_ no perfect solution where Tim was concerned.

Dr. Khalid had explained the options they had, and the McGees had nodded and then gone to their hotel to think about it. It was such a hard decision to make, but they had to be the ones to make it. Tim couldn't. Dr. Khalid wasn't even sure how well it would work; the literature was mixed in its conclusions...but there was this fear that there was no other choice...and yet that things wouldn't get better. The side effects of the drugs might make Tim paranoid or depressed, could even lead to death...and would that really be better? Olanzapine had apparently been used with success in one case of Cotard delusion brought on by brain injury ten years ago, but the possible side effects from using olanzapine were frightening, running the gamut from simple irritability to seizures or diabetes mellitus or even a serious syndrome that could kill him. How was such a decision to be made? How in the world could it be possible to decide what to do?

It had now been more than two months since Tim had awakened from his coma. The stitches had been removed, leaving only a red scar as evidence of what had happened to him. Tim's obsession with his wound had continued and he spent long periods of time every day just touching the scar...always with the palms of his hands. He would wake from nightmares during the night that filled him with horror. During the day, he sometimes seemed to be reliving the moment when he'd been shot.

All in all, it wasn't even close to a perfect situation...

...and it was about to get worse.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim opened his eyes. It was dark. He was alone. As his body slowly crumbled to bits with him trapped inside it, he had become more and more desperate to get away, to find some way that he could escape. He had thought about leaving the hospital, but he decided that his chances of getting very far weren't good. He still had trouble with his balance. ...but there was something else he could try.

Dr. Gingras still came and talked to him over and over again, but it was frustrating because he didn't seem to care that Tim was dead...just like everyone else.

"Up to me," he whispered. "All up to me."

With that decided, he got out of bed, pulled the IVs out of his arms, and left his room. He hadn't ever really walked out of the room and instantly, he felt assailed by the unfamiliar images and sounds. He felt like he was lost in some alternate universe. The shimmering came back stronger than ever, that veil of separation.

He felt tired after walking only a few feet...but he was not going to be defeated this time. If no one would help him escape from his death, then he would escape it himself. As he walked down the hall, he wasn't sure where he was going...until he saw the stairs.

Stairs.

Could he manage stairs with his decaying, rotting body? His skin was nearly gone in some places.

Yes, he could manage the stairs. He _had_ to manage the stairs.

He heard a voice behind him as he stepped into the stairwell, but he ignored it. No one was worth talking to...and he had places to go.

...or _no _places to go...ever again.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Jimmy knew that it was late to look in on Tim, and he didn't really expect to _talk_ to Tim. He just wanted to see how he was doing without anyone else around. No matter what Ducky said, he still felt horrible about what had happened to Tim. He didn't want to confront that more than he had to.

...but as he was heading down the hall toward Tim's room, he thought he saw Tim walking into the stairwell.

"Tim?"

No reaction. Not even a pause. He stared for a few seconds and then continued on his way, but he didn't like how he felt.

Something was very wrong.

...and when he got to Tim's room, he knew that his bad feeling had been correct.

The room was empty.

Jimmy turned around and ran back to the stairwell. When he got inside it, he heard a door close up above him. Tim was already on the top floor. Only the roof was above him.

...only the roof.

Jimmy suddenly felt sick to his stomach. He'd never been disturbed by death. It was a natural part of life. Everyone died eventually.

...but he'd never had anyone die because of him before. He didn't want this to be the first time...and he _really_ didn't want it to be Tim who died...not like he was now fearing he would.

Up the stairs as quickly as he could. He was gasping for breath as he reached the door to the roof.

When he got out onto the roof, he looked around.

"Tim! Tim!" he shouted.

No answer.

Was he already too late?

He ran across the roof, looking for any sign of Tim.

...and then, he saw him.

Tim was just sitting on the edge of the roof.

"Tim, don't!"

Finally, Tim turned and looked at him with that same confused expression he always had when someone first talked to him, like he couldn't believe they were bothering.

"Tim, get...away from the edge..." Jimmy said, his heart in his throat. He suddenly realized that he might have to be the person to talk Tim down...and he didn't know what to say...and he couldn't chance leaving Tim alone. He _wouldn't_ risk that.

"No," Tim said, shaking his head slightly. "It's...the only idea I could...come up with."

"What idea?"

"I'm dead," Tim said sadly. "I'm dead, but I can't get away from my body, and it's falling apart and...and maybe if I just...break it completely...maybe then, I can finally escape."

"No, Tim," Jimmy said. "You're _not_ dead! You're not! You never have been! ...but if you jump off the roof, you really will be."

"You don't understand," Tim said. "Nothing is right. Nothing. Everything looks wrong. Everything feels wrong. This isn't DC."

"Yes, it is."

"No. It _looks_ like it _could_ be, but it's not. It's somewhere else, and I can't figure out why anyone would do that...would _change_ where I am and make it look the same."

"No one did, Tim," Jimmy said desperately. "No one changed anything. You're not dead. It's because of the injury from...from your getting shot. Things look different because you have a healing lesion in your visual cortex. It's distorting what you see. It was caused by a hematoma that they found. It's getting better."

Tim just shook his head again and looked out over the city. His hands moved up to cover the scar on his head. He started to lean forward.

"Please, Tim! Don't! ...I'll get in such big trouble!" Jimmy said before he could think about what he was saying.

...but that seemed to surprise Tim. His hands fell to his lap and he looked at Jimmy.

"Why?"

"Because...I'm the only person here, and everyone else knows you're alive, too, and if you kill yourself, they'll blame me because I didn't stop you! ...and it's my fault you're hurt anyway. Dr. Mallard would be the worst because he'd _try_ to pretend that he didn't blame me, but he would! Please, don't put me through that!"

Tim stared at him for a few seconds...and then his eyes filled with tears.

"I'm dead, Jimmy!" he said. "I'm dead and I'm falling apart! I'm stuck inside a dead body and I can't...can't get away. No one else seems to care that I'm...I'm rotting away! Every day that I'm stuck like this...what am I supposed to do to stop it? There's nothing because I don't what I've done to deserve this! I know I disobeyed orders, but...I...I wanted to make sure you guys would be okay. You don't have guns. You're not supposed to be in danger. ...but I didn't know that I'd be killed and stuck in my body because I stood up. I saw that...that moment...I can't get away from that moment when..." Tim's eyes glazed over. Then, his head jerked backward.

...as if he'd just been shot. He started breathing arrhythmically and the tears streamed down his cheeks...and he put his hands over his scar again. He closed his eyes tightly.

"I hate this. I hate this. I hate this. Why am I stuck in my body like this? Why, Jimmy? What did I do wrong? I don't remember seeing a light. I don't remember being told to go somewhere else. I don't remember any of that, but I keep seeing that bullet. Over and over again. Over and over. Why?"

Jimmy couldn't think of anything to say that would make things better. He couldn't. He had no experience with this kind of thing.

"Tim...I don't know what to tell you. How sure are you that you're dead?"

Another strange blinking at him...as if he'd asked a question that was totally bizarre...which it was, but Jimmy thought that Tim probably wouldn't find it bizarre for the same reason.

"On a scale of one to ten," Jimmy said. Anything that kept Tim from thinking about jumping.

"Why?"

"I'm...just curious."

"I don't know. I don't...think about...numbers."

"Think about it now," Jimmy said. "Please? Please, think about the numbers."

"I guess...9.5."

"Really? Not ten?"

The hands again moved away from his head.

"I guess not."

"You're five percent _not_ sure that you're dead."

"I'm 95 percent sure that I am."

"Yeah, but you don't know for sure. What if you're wrong? You'll be killing yourself when you're not dead!"

Tim shook his head and pressed his palms against his forehead again.

"But...it doesn't matter because...because I am. ...and even if you're right...I still _feel_ like I am and it still...everything is still wrong!"

"But it _does_ matter because if you're alive, then you'll be able to get better...if you wait."

"I don't want to _wait_!" Tim shouted. It was the first time he'd really raised his voice since he'd been shot...and his instant reaction to the noise explained why. It was as if he'd hurt his own ears. "I've been crumbling to nothing! I don't like it! I hate it!"

"But, Tim, if you're wrong, that means that you're not _really_ crumbling to nothing. It means that you _feel_ like it, but you're not!"

"It doesn't matter!"

"It _does_ matter!" Jimmy nearly shouted. He was sure that he was probably the worst person in the world to be doing this. He didn't seem to be helping at all and he felt so alone in this. "Because it's _temporary_. I know you hate it, but it won't last forever!"

"I was shot in the head!"

"And you didn't die!"

"Yes, I did."

"But you're not completely sure. If you have even a little bit of doubt, you should _wait_."

"I don't want to."

Jimmy saw now, for the first time, that there was something more to Tim's injury than just that he thought he was dead. He was unable to fathom something other than what he was sure of. He really _couldn't_ accept any other possibility. That presented another problem. How could Jimmy convince him not to jump if he had no ability to think of anything other than what he believed?

"Tim...do you care about us at all anymore?"

"What?"

"Do you care? I get that you can't...believe that we're right, even if we are. ...but don't you care how we feel at all?"

"You don't care how I feel," Tim said.

"Yes, I do. I really do. I really, _really_ do because you're like this because of me. ...and I really do want to help."

"Then, help me escape this."

"I can't. I wish I could, Tim, but I can't. If you jump...you're going to hurt the rest of us a _lot_."

"If I don't, I hurt myself more."

"No, you don't. You only think you do."

Tim suddenly moved away from the edge of the building. He moved to Jimmy and grabbed his arms before sagging to his knees, actually pulling Jimmy down with him.

"I'm dead! I don't know what to do, Jimmy! I don't know how to...deal with this! The only thing I can...think of is this! What do I do? What do I do?" He was panicked, afraid, shaking, his breathing irregular.

"I don't know, Tim...but you can't do this. I can't let you."

Jimmy wrapped his arms around Tim, less as a hug as to keep Tim from going anywhere else. He could tell the moment Tim realized that he wasn't going to get to the ledge again. He started to struggle, but Jimmy could hold onto him easily.

He couldn't drag Tim anywhere, but he couldn't let him go either...so Jimmy just sat there on the roof of the hospital, holding onto Tim until he sagged limply in Jimmy's grasp...unconscious or asleep, Jimmy didn't know, but it at least gave him a chance to pull out his cell phone. He dialed the only useful number that he could think of (or rather the only useful number he wasn't terrified of dialing).

"Hello...uh...Dr. Mallard?"

"_What is it, Mr. Palmer?"_

"Um...I'm on the roof of the hospital with...Tim...and I don't know how to get him off."

"_What?"_

"Tim came up here to jump...and I saw him, and I was the only one who saw him...and...and he's not awake right now, but I don't know if I could get him off the roof without hurting him. ...and, Dr. Mallard...I'm really scared that I'm going to let him die."

"_You're on the roof?"_

"Yeah."

"_Very well. I will contact the hospital and tell them to get someone up there. He was going to jump?"_

"Yeah...he said that he couldn't think of anything else to do and he thought that no one cared about how much he hurt from being in a body that was falling apart."

"_Oh, dear. I'll call them right away. You hang up and make sure that he doesn't try it again."_

"Yes, Doctor."

"_And Jimmy?"_

"Yes?"

"_Good job, lad."_

Jimmy suddenly wanted to cry, but he didn't. "Thank you, Dr. Mallard."

"_Hang up the phone, Jimmy."_

"Yes, sir."

Jimmy hung up the phone and looked at Tim. He kept a firm grip on him until the door to the roof opened and hospital personnel, including Dr. Khalid, came to get Tim into a safe place.

"What's going to happen?" Jimmy asked.

Dr. Khalid was grave. "We're going to move him into the secure wing. This is not at all what I was expecting. He'll be in lockdown for a while."

"How long?"

"I don't know. Not yet."

"Okay."

"Are _you_ all right?"

"Tim's still alive. That's something," Jimmy said with a weak smile.

Dr. Khalid put a hand on his shoulder.

"If you need to talk to anyone, I'm free. Otherwise, I think you should talk to some of your friends. Decompress."

"Yeah? That gonna help?"

"It will."

"Okay."

"Thank you. He wouldn't have stopped."

"I know."

"You saved his life."

"Oh..." Jimmy took a deep breath.

Dr. Khalid smiled sympathetically.

After he left the roof, Jimmy let out a long exhalation. He could only hope that he _had_ helped.

He was afraid he hadn't done anything.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

And now, he was in a new place, moved there at dizzying speeds, surrounded by other strangers and being told that he would be here for a while, that they'd take care of him.

He suddenly realized that he was stuck where he was, that they weren't going to let him get away...and for the first time, he was filled with a panicked energy that consumed him.

For a while he was actually attempting to break the door down...but then, they came in and forced him onto the bed. He was forced to be there. He couldn't move. He couldn't get away from the bed.

When people he knew finally came in, he looked at them desperately.

"Why?" he asked. "_Why_?"

He pulled against the things on his wrists. He let out a bestial scream and strained to get away. This was worse than before. He couldn't explain why it was. ...but it was. It was horrible, awful...and he felt as though his body was crumbling to dust...starting at his wrists.

...and then, suddenly, he felt something...a hand...on his forehead. A gentle hand began massaging where he'd been shot. The caressing was just...nice. He stopped screaming. He stopped struggling...and he just lay there, feeling the hand. His breathing slowed down.

"Tim, can you hear me?"

The voice washed over him without any real meaning. He just felt the hand.

"Tim?"

The hand vanished. He heard his name.

"Why?" he asked faintly.

"Tim, you were hurting yourself. We couldn't let that happen."

"Dead."

"No, you're not, but you could have killed yourself."

"Better that way."

"No. It's not. It's really not."

He had the answer to solve everything and they weren't letting him. He tried to pull against the things holding him down again. He tried and tried to escape, to end the torment...to just die already, but they wouldn't let him. He couldn't understand why they claimed to care about him when they were putting him through this.

It was so frustrating, so agonizing, that he started to scream again. He screamed and screamed and screamed until finally, things began to dissolve into oblivion. He had little hope that it was permanent. Every time things faded away, they always came back again.

Every time.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Ducky sighed as Tim's eyes closed again. Gibbs said nothing...but Ducky was sure he was thinking the same thing. He didn't know what was worse: Tim's steadfast belief in his own death or his screaming bloody murder because they'd been forced to restrain him. When Naomi had massaged his head, he had calmed for a brief period, but it hadn't lasted. Now, they were starting to consider temporarily putting Tim on antipsychotics. Because of the awful side effects, they weren't sure about it, but a decision would have to be made soon.

"Dr. Mallard? Agent Gibbs?"

Ducky turned and managed to smile at Naomi and Sam...both of whom were, understandably, discouraged at the apparent lack of progress. In the week since Tim had been confined to the secure wing, there had been no noticeable improvements. He was too panicked at the confinement to respond to anything.

"Yes, Mrs. McGee?"

"We'd like to talk to you...get your opinions on what we're considering."

"What is it?" Ducky asked.

Sam sighed. "We are nearly certain that we're going ask Dr. Khalid to put Tim on olanzapine in the hopes of solving this...even temporarily."

"You seem very unsure," Ducky said.

"We are," Naomi said. "This could be worse than it already is, but we won't know unless we try."

Sam forced a smile. "Jean-Paul Sartre said...'A lost battle is a battle one thinks one has lost.' We're trying not to think we've lost, but it's seeming more like it every day that this goes on. We're grasping at straws trying to find something that will help...something that will prove that our son is still in there somewhere...because we can't see him."

"He's in there," Gibbs said, slightly gruffly. "McGee is still in there."

"What does Dr. Khalid say?"

"That we can try it for a few days and if there's no change in the delusion, then, we'll know that it's not helping and we can stop it, but that doesn't mean that he won't suffer from the side effects in those couple of days...and some of them...could kill him," Naomi said, tears in her eyes. "And if it does help, we don't know how long he'll need to stay on it. Will the delusion come back after he stops taking it?"

"And we have to make this decision," Sam said. "And it's the...hardest decision we've ever faced in our lives."

"What do you want from us?" Gibbs asked, not unkindly.

"Reassurance," Naomi said, honestly. "We want someone besides our doctor to tell us that we're making the right decision by choosing to risk Tim's health and even his life by putting him on this drug."

Gibbs looked at Ducky and then at the McGees. "I'm no doctor, and I don't know anything about this stuff...but waiting hasn't helped. I think Tim would want you to take the risk...especially if he knew there was a chance that he could get his mind back."

"I concur," Ducky said. "Timothy would hate to know what he has been saying and doing without really having any control over his actions. If Dr. Khalid has recommended this as a course of action, I would follow his recommendation, even acknowledging the risks involved."

"Thank you," Naomi said. "We've been thinking the same thing, but we wanted to hear it from someone else. Thank you."

They all stared at Tim's inert form for a few minutes and then Sam and Naomi excused themselves to find Dr. Khalid and tell him their decision. After they were gone, Ducky sat back sighed deeply.

"Duck?" Gibbs asked.

"This is a risky proposition. Some people believe that any use of antipsychotics can lead to permanent brain damage. There's a risk for a possibly fatal syndrome. This particular drug will also put Timothy at risk for developing diabetes. There are so many things that could go wrong."

"Are you saying that you lied to them?"

"No. The unfortunate thing is that I believe that this may be the best option. ...but the best option amidst a number of bad options is still a bad option. ...and we can't change that, no matter how much we'd like to."

"If we can't change it, then, we'll live with it," Gibbs said...but then looked at the man lying on the bed.

Tim looked _better_ if it was possible to use the word to describe someone who still believed he was dead, who still had a visible scar revealing the cause of the problems, who was pale...whose eyes, when they were open, were dull and lifeless, the color of pond scum, rather than their usual vibrant green. Better...but still not healed. ...and would it ever be possible for his mind to heal? It was hard to know how much permanent damage there might be in his brain when Tim was still so distant from them, when he seemed unable to grasp reality to any degree.

"...and we'll hope that Tim lives with it, too," he added softly.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

It took until the evening to get everything organized for Tim's first dose of olanzapine. He was awake when Dr. Khalid arrived. He wasn't raving, but he had that haunted look in his eyes and he stared at them all with an expression of betrayal. ...and it hurt, even though they knew it was for the best.

It had been decided that Tim would be monitored around the clock until they were able to determine how he'd react to the drug. The fatal side effects were rare, but Tim's condition was also quite rare. No sense in risking his life on statistics. Besides the fatal side effects, he could also suffer from seizures which were to be avoided if possible because of the newly-healed tissue in his brain. No one wanted to risk yet more damage.

...but they were risking it just by their decision.

...but no one wanted to think about that.

The funny thing was that antipsychotics were used all the time, but because of the nature of Tim's injury and the nature of his continuing delusion, it somehow made the prospect of yet more negative effects that much worse.

"Now, Tim, you'll likely feel very drowsy when the olanzapine takes effect, and that's normal. However, even though you insist that you're not alive to feel anything, if you _do_ have any sensations that don't seem right...beyond the usual, please let someone know."

Then, the moment came and the drug was given. Any hope that there would be instant recovery was quickly dashed by Dr. Khalid.

"Remember, that you may not see any improvement on the first dose. It can take up to a week for any real progress to be seen. Don't be disappointed if you see nothing different at first."

Behind him, Tim had started chanting "I'm dead." over and over again. Not loudly, just persistently, until finally, he drifted off to sleep yet again.

...and now, they just had to wait.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

They saw little, if any improvement over the next couple of days. Tim's insistence on his current state of non-existence remained constant. What _did_ change was a dramatic increase in how dizzy he felt. He could barely keep his eyes open. One of the areas of his brain that had been damaged was that relating to balance. Healing was slow but it was coming along. One of the possible side effects of olanzapine, however, was dizziness...and it seemed that Tim's injury made him more susceptible. He was also extremely drowsy as his body adjusted to the presence of the drug in his system.

All in all...Sam and Naomi began to wonder if they'd made a mistake.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Three days later..._

Tim opened his eyes...and then instantly closed them. He felt _so_ dizzy. It was as if the room was spinning around him. He let out a couple of shaky breaths...and tried again.

"Tim? Are you awake?"

"Dizzy..." he said. He couldn't get the room to stop spinning long enough to see who was talking to him. The brief glimpses he got revealed a distorted world.

"Any other discomforts?"

The voice wasn't familiar to him...but he thought he'd heard it before. ...and why was it that he felt so sure that he was dead?

"Cold...really cold. Am I dead?"

"No."

"Mom?"

"Yes, Tim. I'm here."

"Am I dead?"

"No, you're not."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Why do I think I am? Why do I _feel_ like I am?"

He felt someone take his hand. He felt another hand on his forehead.

"Do you remember getting shot, Tim?"

"_McGee! Stay down!"_

"_There's no cover for Ducky and Jimmy!"_

"_They have enough! Stay down until we can figure out where these guys are."_

"_Boss, look at them! They can't shoot back. They can't get back to the truck."_

_He got up and headed toward the crumbling wall...and turned around...and..._

He jerked backward, breathing heavily at the intensity of the flashback.

"I...got...shot...and I'm not dead?"

"No. It's a miracle, but you survived."

"But it feels like I'm dead...nothing looks right. ...disobeyed orders..."

He was starting to feel agitated and confused. There was a feeling that he'd died, but he was being told by people he trusted that he was still alive. ...but when he opened his eyes, things looked strange, and he was so dizzy...and...

"Tim?"

The voice made him try to open his eyes. He shouldn't be lying around in front of his boss! The room spun as he tried to push himself up. He closed his eyes again and didn't fight the hands that pushed him back down to the bed.

"Can you hear me?"

"Yes...Boss..."

"Good. You aren't in trouble."

"I'm...not?"

"No. You're not. Can you try to remember that? What you're going through right now isn't some sort of twisted punishment."

Tim didn't remember thinking that, but it made sense to him that it _would_ be right...but apparently, it wasn't. Weird.

"Do you hear me, Tim?"

"Yes...I...I guess."

"Do you believe me?"

"I...don't know."

A hand on his forehead. It helped him feel more secure. The world wasn't going to tilt and throw him off it. It calmed him in spite of his continuing confusion and worry. If he thought hard, he remembered a lot of time behind him in which he was dead, but maybe that wasn't quite right? The memories were definitely unclear.

The hand vanished and Tim's dizziness increased. He grabbed for the bed, trying to stabilize himself again. His breathing became shallow.

There was a hand on his arm which, again, linked him to the rest of the world. He wasn't floating in a strange limbo...separated from the living.

"Keep...disappearing..." he whispered.

"What does, Tim?" That was his mother. He recognized her voice.

"The world."

"Does it help when someone touches you?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Dr. Khalid is here and he wants to explain some things to you."

"Okay."

That familiar/unfamiliar voice came again. "Tim, are you listening?"

"Yes. I...think so..."

"Good. A couple of months ago, you were shot. You remember that, I know. Since then, you've been recovering and you've been having some problems. One of the problems is that the bullet did some damage in the part of your brain that processes vision. It's starting to heal, but that's throwing off your perceptions. Do you understand?"

It was kind of hard to focus on what Dr. Khalid was saying, but it was _kind_ of clear.

"I think...maybe..."

"Okay. Besides the initial damage, we have you on some medication that is exacerbating the dizziness you felt before, making it worse. Your balance is off and that's not helping. ...but you're improving by the day. I'm extremely optimistic that your body will adjust to the medication and the dizziness will fade to manageable levels."

"Why...the...medication?"

"How do you feel about yourself?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you know that you're alive?"

"No."

"But are you certain that you're dead?"

"No. I thought I was. I feel...like I'm...maybe...dead...and that's not right?"

"No, it's not. You're very much alive. ...and that's what the medication is for. It's helping you work through that feeling of being dead."

"...but why would...I..." Tim tried opening his eyes again and managed to keep them open for a few seconds to get a look at his doctor...before the spinning was too much for him again. "...I feel I'm dead...and be still alive?"

The hand on his arm tightened.

"It's called the Cotard delusion. It happens sometimes and it's impossible to predict when it will occur."

"...but...that...doesn't make any sense." Tim felt his ability to focus ebbing away. "...if I think I'm dead...I _have_ to be dead. I wouldn't..." An ache started developing in his head. "Can't...think..."

"Are you tired, Tim?"

Dr. Khalid had a very soothing voice.

"Yes."

"Okay. Why don't you just try to sleep. We can talk more later."

"Okay."

Part of Tim was telling him that there was a lot going on that he should try and figure out, but dominating his brain right now was just the message of exhaustion and dizziness.

"Mom?"

A hand on his forehead.

"I'm here, Tim."

"I don't...understand. ...and I'm so tired."

"You can sleep. I'll stay right here and keep you anchored."

"Good."

He seemed to remember that there were problems with sleeping and then waking later, but he couldn't remember what they were exactly...and he had to give in to the need to sleep.

So he fell into the darkness.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Once they were certain Tim had fallen asleep again, Naomi and Sam looked at Dr. Khalid with concern. Gibbs said nothing, but he kept his hand on Tim's arm. The NCIS people had long since set up shifts in which they would show up so that they didn't overwhelm either Tim or his family with their...idiosyncratic ways of showing concern. Gibbs was here by himself right now, but Jimmy was going to be coming by soon.

"Dr. Khalid," Naomi began.

Dr. Khalid smiled. "There's been a major improvement."

"Has there? He still thinks he's dead. He can't even open his eyes because he's so dizzy...and he's still saying that things look wrong. How is that better?"

"Because he's not _sure_ that he's dead. He thinks he must be, he _feels_ like he is, but he isn't _insisting_ that he's dead. It may seem like a minor thing to you, but psychologically, there's a _big_ difference between knowing one is dead and _feeling_ like one is dead. Big difference."

"I'll...take your word for it," Sam said. "...but I have to say that...I'm not feeling very encouraged."

"You should. I'm seeing that this medication is working. What I've found in the medical literature is that once the delusion is fully resolved, we can slowly wean Tim off olanzapine without too much risk of a relapse. This is how it's supposed to work."

"How long will it take for him to...get closer to normal?" Naomi asked.

"As long as it takes," Dr. Khalid said, "but I think that within a few days, we'll see that Tim will really be much more in command of himself. You may not see a complete recovery. In fact, you probably won't. Tim still has a long way to go, but the delusion, which has been the biggest issue, should be gone."

"And then?"

"Then, we can focus more on finding out how far he can go. ...but let's take this one step at a time. Probably, once we're sure that he won't be a danger to himself, you can start looking into rehabilitation centers for him. He'll need time and rehab."

They all nodded. It was not...wonderful, but it was better than they'd had up to this point.

The McGees went with Dr. Khalid to start compiling a list of rehab clinics, leaving Gibbs alone with Tim for a few minutes. He removed his hand from Tim's arm. Tim twitched slightly and took a deep shuddering breath. Gibbs put his hand back and Tim stilled.

He tried to see the improvement that Dr. Khalid could. He was willing to trust him, but it was hard to see this confused and clearly-unwell young man as being vastly improved. He supposed that he had to stop comparing Tim as he was now to how he'd been. He just had to accept that Tim was going to be long in recovering.

...just so long as he _did_ eventually.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Jimmy was sitting by Tim. He'd sat there for a couple of hours, first with Gibbs...then, with Sam and Naomi. Now, he was alone. Sam and Naomi were taking a break from their near-constant vigil. Tim had been asleep almost the entire time. His waking had been very brief.

"Tim?" Jimmy said softly.

Tim stirred slightly, but he didn't wake up.

"Man, I'm sorry that this is still going on," he said, talking almost as much to himself as to Tim. "I can't stop thinking about that time on the roof. I was so afraid that you really were going to die...and that I'd see it. It keeps running through my head. I took Dr. Khalid's advice and I'm talking about it, but...I don't know if I'll ever forget...how close you've come... twice."

Jimmy sighed and leaned forward, resting his head on his hands.

"I told Dr. Mallard that I don't think I can look at death the same way as I used to. It's just...it's not only interesting anymore. It's really...personal. It's real...and I can't really think of how to explain it. It's just not the same as it was. ...well, _death_ is the same. That hasn't changed. People still die, but..." Jimmy laughed a little. "I can't even think of an inappropriate joke right now."

"That's probably a _good_ thing, Jimmy."

Jimmy sat up and turned around. Tony walked over to the bed and sat down beside him.

"Gibbs said that Tim is supposedly doing better."

"Yeah. I don't know. He's been mostly asleep. His parents still seem really worried about everything. They're going to be giving Tim his next dose soon."

"Yeah..."

Tim's eyes opened briefly and he looked at them...and then, he swallowed and his lids dropped.

"Hey, McGee," Tony said. "You awake?"

"I don't know."

Tony looked at Jimmy who just shrugged.

"If you're talking to me, I think you are, Probie."

"Am I dead?"

"No."

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

"I don't...much like...being alive if that's...what this is."

"Hey, that's just you needing a bit more time to get into the flow of things, McGee," Tony said. "You'll be up and about in no time."

Tim shook his head for a moment but then stopped quickly.

"No...this is...wrong. All of it is so...off...I can't..."

"That's just the drugs right now," Jimmy said, not knowing for sure if that was true. "You'll adjust and things will be lots better."

However, it seemed like his attempt to encourage Tim was wasted. Tim was holding tightly to the mattress of the bed, as if he was afraid of falling off it.

"McGee?" Tony asked. "You all right?"

"World is...twisting...wrong...falling off it."

Tony reached out and squeezed Tim's shoulder.

"You're not falling."

"Not...now...safe on the...the bed."

Tim didn't speak again, and he seemed to fall asleep again.

"Dr. Khalid says he's better," Jimmy said.

"Yeah. Better."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

_Four days later..._

"_What do you think, Duck?"_

_Ducky looked up and smiled. "Jethro, I just got here. I've barely had time to look at the poor man. Give me a chance to kneel down at least."_

_Ziva looked around. It was an old house with a rock wall that would seem more suited to England than to Virginia. The man who had been ruthlessly gunned down seemed to have been taken completely by surprise._

_Tony headed over from talking to Metro who'd first reported the body._

"_Well?" Gibbs asked._

"_Seems like the petty officer had been seen with some pretty suspicious guys. Metro was trying to build a case on them, trying to get at what was going on."_

"_...and what did they _think_?"_

"_This guy was being used to transport drugs aboard ship. That's what they were starting to suspect, anyway."_

"_Okay. McGee?"_

"_Photos. On it, Boss."_

_Tim began photographing the scene. He started with the body, chatting with Ducky and Jimmy as they made their evaluations and documented what was necessary. Tony and Ziva were gathering evidence around the yard._

"_McGee!" Tony called. "Got a gun here! Might be worth taking a picture of it. Maybe we could frame it or something. Nice looking piece..."_

_Tim smiled and rolled his eyes good-naturedly at Ducky and headed over. The body was at one end of the old wall. Tony was crouched at the other end._

"_Why would he have left his gun here?" Tim asked, raising the camera._

"_Don't know, Probie. Why don't you ask him?"_

"_Talking to the dead is Ducky's job, Tony. Not mine."_

"_Gibbs!" Ziva called from the other end of the small yard. "I believe I have found something here."_

_Gibbs strode over toward her and then paused and looked back. Tony and Tim followed his gaze and saw a group of three men walking down the sidewalk. They were determinedly casual, but something was off about them._

_...and then, they knew what it was. Two of them pulled out guns and began firing relentlessly, first toward Ziva's location and then toward Tony and Tim. Ziva dove behind the wall, Gibbs right behind her. Tony and Tim did likewise. In the confusion, the men hid themselves from view, but still seemed to have a good place to shoot from._

_Tim looked back toward Ducky and Jimmy. They were _trying_ to get cover behind the wall as well, but it had long since crumbled where they were and the portion they were trying to hide behind was barely enough for one, let alone two. _

_A couple of bullets hit the top of the wall, and Tim could see Ducky and Jimmy trying to cower lower than they were already. ...but it was impossible. ...and it was too much of a risk for them to try and cover the distance to a better-preserved portion of the wall. There was a gap from a now-missing gate that was at least ten feet wide. The other side was a smaller gap but it might as well have been a mile._

"_They might as well have targets painted on their backs," Tim said to Tony._

"_They'll be okay, McGee," Tony said. "We just have to take these guys out."_

_Tim shook his head and started to run back toward Ducky and Jimmy. At the least, they needed some covering fire so that they could possibly get to better protection. Gibbs noticed his movement._

"_McGee! Stay down!"_

"_There's no cover for Ducky and Jimmy!"_

"_They have enough! Stay down until we can figure out where these guys are."_

"_Boss, look at them! They can't shoot back. They can't get back to the truck."_

_A bullet nearly hit him and Tim dove to the ground._

"_McGee! Stay down! That's an order!"_

_But Tim shook his head, got up and headed toward the crumbling wall. He got off a couple of shots and ducked again. Then, he reached as close as he could come with any kind of protection. _

"_Ducky, Jimmy. I'm going to cover you and you run over toward me. Okay?"_

"_Timothy, we'll be fine."_

_As if done just to give lie to his words, a bullet whizzed by and buried itself in the ground right beside Ducky's hand, kicking up dirt into his face._

"_Ducky, I'll cover you both. Just get ready to run. Trust me."_

"_Mr. Palmer?"_

_Jimmy's face was pale but he nodded quickly. "I'm ready, Doctor."_

"_Good," Tim said. He checked his gun and then counted down silently for Ducky and Jimmy._

_He stood up, turned to fire and got off two shots. He vaguely noticed Ducky and Jimmy running as quickly as they could, keeping low to the ground...and that slight moment of distraction proved a fatal mistake. Before he could fire more than one additional shot, he seemed to make eye contact across the yard with one of the men who had attacked them. It was as if the entire world slowed down, boiled down only to Tim and the nameless man. He saw him pull the trigger. He saw the slight smile on the man's face as he knew he'd got off a kill shot. Tim thought about diving, but he couldn't get himself to move in those endless split seconds. He inhaled in shock._

_...and the world exploded into darkness._

Tim came awake with a wordless cry, sitting up in bed and then toppling over as the omnipresent dizziness caught him. He curled into a ball and began to cry in fear. It was dark and it was strange...and that nightmare.

"Agent McGee?"

He couldn't even _fathom_ replying to the formal address. He was terrified and dizzy and he wasn't ready for a stranger in addition.

He heard softer voices.

"Who's here right now? His parents?"

"No. A couple of the agents are sleeping in the waiting room."

"Get them."

Tim pressed his palms against his forehead, trying to do...something. He didn't know what.

A hand was on his arm and a smaller one encircled his wrist.

"Tim, what's wrong?"

A familiar voice. Tim opened his eyes, and grabbed for whoever was there.

"The...I saw them...I saw the...the gun...and...and it was a mistake. A big...mistake and..."

Comforting arms around him. He closed his eyes tightly.

"It's okay, Tim. I've got you. You're okay."

"The...I have...there's a hole in my head...I..."

Another voice.

"Probie, it's okay. It happened months ago. You didn't die, and you protected Ducky and Jimmy. It's okay now."

Tim huddled him the arms of whoever was holding him.

"McGee, it is all right. You are all right."

"No...I was...I can't...move...it was..."

"Open your eyes, McGee."

"No...it...I don't want to see..."

"Tim, you can open your eyes. It's safe."

"McGee, please."

Tim cracked open his eyes. ...and he saw that he wasn't where he thought he'd been. No rock wall. No hard ground. He was...in a hospital. The arms around him made the dizziness less than it had been. He still felt shaky.

He chanced looking around a little.

"Hey, McGee," Tony said, leaning into his vision. "You feeling any better?"

Tim looked right and left.

"You remember the last little while?"

"No...I..." Tim thought for a few seconds. He seemed to remember strange feelings...things looking very strange. "I'm dead?" he asked.

"No, Tim!"

He finally identified the arms around him. He could feel her voice as he leaned against her.

"Abby...I'm not?"

"No. You are not," Ziva said.

Tim looked at her worriedly. "Why do I think I could be then?"

"Do you remember Dr. Khalid telling you what happened?"

Tim squeezed his eyes shut and thought hard.

"I got shot..."

"Yes...and?"

"And...there was...he said I had something that made me think...I was dead?" Then, his eyes opened wide and he started to sit up, in spite of his continuing dizziness. "I was going to...to jump off the...I was screaming...I thought...I felt...and I'm not dead?"

"No. You're not. It's okay."

"But I was...Jimmy...he..." Tim looked around. "Ducky...and Jimmy...they were...are they okay? I was supposed to...stay down...and..."

"They're okay," Tony said. "Really. You probably saved their lives, Tim. They've been just fine."

Tim tried to sort through the strange and distorted memories he had...but it was so confusing. He remembered being dead, but that didn't make sense because he wasn't dead now...even if he wasn't completely certain of that. He remembered trying to make sure Ducky and Jimmy didn't get hurt...but that meant that he himself _had_ been hurt...and he wasn't really happy about that.

"I remember...I got shot...in the head...and I survived it?"

Tony smiled. "Yeah, you did. You must have horseshoes in both pockets."

Tim's head was spinning but Tony's jaunty grin made him chance a slight smile himself.

"When did...all this happen?"

"Oh, man, Probie. It's been weeks. Like three months, I think."

"But...I've been here all this time?"

"In the hospital? Yeah."

"My parents?"

"They've been here."

"...and I never...got buried?"

"No."

"Tim, do you know that you're not dead?"

"I...mostly...I think...yes?"

He felt Abby's laughter.

"That's really assertive, Tim. You're alive, and I'm so glad that you're not sure that you're dead now."

"I was sure before?"

"Yes. Very sure."

"Because of that...that disease or whatever?"

"It's called Cotard delusion."

"And why don't I have it now?"

"You're on some medication, Tim. That's why you're so dizzy...and you're not thinking clearly...but this is better than before. You're doing a _lot_ better."

"Am I?"

"Yes, this is way better than you were."

"But...this doesn't...I can't..."

"It's okay, Tim. You're getting better."

"I'm..." Tim looked at himself and then closed his eyes to regain some stability. "I'm...alive?"

He felt Abby's arms tighten around him.

"Yes, Tim. You are. You're _really_ alive!"

"You feel any better now?"

"I think so. ...and I'm not dead?"

"That's right."

"I dreamed of...what happened," Tim said. "I thought...I saw...it was..."

"You remembered, but remember that you didn't die."

"Everything exploded...and it went dark."

Tim lay there and took a deep breath. Things were so confusing. Things were not clear, but the one thing that was coming out of all this was that he was probably alive and he was safe.

"Is...Is Gibbs mad at me?"

"No, he is not. He has said that before," Ziva said, sounding amused.

"I disobeyed a...a direct order."

"And saved a couple of people," Tony said. "I think you're okay. You're hardly the first person to disobey orders around here."

His heart rate was much calmer now...and his fear was being replaced by a return of his exhaustion. His head lolled back against Abby.

"I want to...sleep more."

"Go ahead. You can sleep. You'll be fine."

Tim started to drift off but he jolted awake again when he remembered the bullet hitting him.

"You're all right, Timmy. You're just fine. Sleep."

Tim tried to relax and felt himself nodding off.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Did you hear him?" Abby said when Tim was asleep. "He almost said he was alive!"

Ziva smiled. "He did more than that."

"He smiled," Tony said. "Not for long, but he did. I think it's the first time he's had any expression on his face since before...that all happened."

"Does that mean that...he's really getting better?" Abby asked.

"I think so. Dr. Khalid seemed to believe that he would be seeing these improvements," Ziva said. "We perhaps should have trusted him."

"Come on, he's a doctor," Tony said. "What does _he_ know?"

Abby laughed and then looked chagrined when Tim stirred in her arms.

"Oops. I don't want to wake him up. You think he'll be even better tomorrow?"

"I hope so."

Ziva smiled at Tim. He still looked so frail, but there had been a dramatic difference in his eyes when he had chanced looking at them. He had looked...alive. Confused, disoriented...but willing to accept that he had survived.

It was a wonderful change.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

As the days progressed, Tim became more and more certain of his state of existence, but that didn't mean he was back to normal. However, at first, it was such a welcome change that no one noticed (or they just ignored) Tim's other problems. But by the end of the second week, Tim's need for recovery became very apparent. The dizziness was only the most obvious issue. He could barely stand on his own two feet, and there was something just a bit off-kilter about him. He wasn't quite there. He got easily confused by conversations. His mind would wander in the middle of a sentence and he would just trail off into silence. His coordination was definitely at a low level...but at the same time, he would often fidget, unable to stay still.

Many of these things were to be dealt with at the rehabilitation clinic Tim's parents had arranged. Getting him out of the psych ward of the hospital and into a clinic that would help him get back his regular function was an important part of the process of Tim's recovery. They had considered moving him to Ohio until he was ready to get back to life again...but Tim had proved strangely stubborn. They weren't going to take him out of DC. He was staying in DC. That was the way things would be. What did that mean? Was it a good sign that Tim was so determined? Or was it a sign of a changed personality? A sign that Tim had become someone else? Would Tim ever be "normal" again?

Another week on olanzapine, with Tim still feeling the side effects, led to further developments.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim woke up with an audible shriek. He was still dreaming of his shooting. Over and over again, whenever he slept. He looked around the room in fright...and couldn't remember where he was. He had to get away from the man who wanted to kill him. He tried to get out of bed and hide...but as soon as he stood up, he lost his balance and toppled to the floor, still terrified. He heard strange sounds coming out of his own mouth, but he was too busy searching for the man who had killed him.

The door opened and he screamed again.

"Tim! Tim, it's all right. Do you remember where you are?"

Tim's head was spinning, causing him to close his eyes, but he tried to scoot away from the voice.

"Tim, it's Denise. I'm the nurse in charge of you. Remember?"

Tim heard the words, but the meaning was lost. He felt a gentle hand on his arm.

"Tim, focus. Just listen. I won't move you until you're ready. You're in the rehabilitation center. You moved in here yesterday. Remember?"

The words started to have meaning again. Tim was still panicked, though. The hand didn't go away.

"Just breathe slowly, Tim. Calm down. Focus on the words I'm saying. I know you're still having trouble processing things, but you can do it if you take the time. Listen to my voice. Slow down your breathing. Don't panic. Just relax."

Tim heard her and finally, he felt able to listen to what she was saying. He remembered now, coming here. He remembered getting shown around the center with the idea that he'd be used to being in a different place. He remembered saying good-bye to his family...and he took a deep, uncontrolled breath as he remembered getting shot again.

"It's all right, Tim. You need to wake up completely. I'm going to turn on the light. I don't want you to be frightened by that. It's just the light going on. Understand?"

"Am I dead?" Tim gasped out.

"No, you're not dead. You're alive and in rehabilitation. You're alive, Tim. Are you ready for me to turn on the light?"

Tim whimpered a little but nodded.

"Okay. Be ready. It's coming in just a few seconds."

There was a pause and then the light flashed on. Tim jumped at the sudden brightness. He had known it was coming, but it was still a surprise. He squeezed his eyes more tightly shut. He whimpered again at the hand on his arm.

"Tim, it's Denise again. The light is on. Open your eyes and see what's really there. I know you're still feeling dizzy, but just keep yourself still and look."

Tim shook his head...which made his dizziness worse.

"Come on, Tim. You know you're alive."

Another head shake.

"Yes, you do. ...and you'll be even more certain when you open your eyes. Go ahead."

"Don't want to."

"I know, but you need to. Come on. Open your eyes."

Tim cracked open his eyes slightly, ready to close them if he caught even a glimpse of the bullet coming at him.

All he saw was the smiling face of the nurse he'd met earlier that day.

"Not too bad, was it?" she asked.

"No."

"All right. You ready to get back into bed now?"

"I dreamed...I got shot."

"I understand. Very vivid for you?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Now, you're going to feel dizzy as you get up. That's okay. It's normal. You might see some spots. You might get a shimmering effect. Both of those are _also_ normal. They're not a reflection of whether or not you're alive. You are. They're also not a precursor to your getting shot. You were shot once. You're safe now. Understand?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Now, I'm going to put my arm around your waist. You're going to push up and we'll get you back on your bed in no time."

Tim agreed and let her support him. As he started to stand, he had the spots and shimmering that always seemed to accompany movement for him.

"I'm alive?" he asked.

"You know you are," she answered and helped him sit down. "Good. Dizzy?"

"Yes."

"All right. Just lay back."

"Why am I like this?"

"Because you got shot."

"But...but they've said that...that it's been a long time. I remember what I was like before. I wasn't like this. I remember being different. Am I going to be like this forever? ...because I don't like it."

Denise sat on the edge of the bed.

"Tim...there's no way of knowing what the final product is going to be like when you first get started. I have no doubt that we'll get you walking in no time. Dr. Khalid gave us a schedule for weaning you off the olanzapine and..."

"But that's what made me know I was alive! If you take that away...won't I start to–?"

"It's not likely that the delusion will recur, Tim. We don't know for sure because there's not a lot of research on it...but Dr. Khalid said that..."

"I tried to jump off a building!" Tim said loudly. "I don't want to...do that again! Jimmy might not be there to stop me!"

"Tim, calm down. You're all right. You're afraid and I understand that much. I won't pretend that I understand everything you're going through, but I do understand being afraid. You can't stay on this drug forever. It's not healthy. You don't need it. Once we get you off it, a lot of the physical symptoms you're suffering will go away. You won't be so dizzy. You probably will be able to think more clearly. Let's get you back to that state."

"...but what if–?"

"Life is always full of what-ifs, Tim. You'll never know them all. You just have to take that risk."

"I disobeyed orders. I got shot."

"Those two things don't necessarily fit together."

"I don't...even want to risk it. I don't want to turn into that again."

"Tim, is there someone you'd like to talk to? One of your friends or your family? If it would help, we can try them."

Tim couldn't think who he should talk to...but all he could think of was the moment when he'd got shot.

"Ask Gibbs if I'm in trouble," he whispered, closing his eyes again.

"You're not."

"Ask him. Ask if I've...how bad I messed up...and what's gonna happen next."

"All right, Tim. Do you know his number?"

Tim thought for a moment and the number was right there. He rattled it off without any question and then he heard the door close. He curled into a fetal position. One of his hands strayed to his forehead. He moved it around until he felt the scar. Then, he pressed his palm over the scar and covered that hand with his other hand, keeping his eyes tightly closed and waiting for something to tell him that it was okay.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Gibbs hadn't expected to be called at one in the morning to make the trek to see Tim, to tell him, yet again, that he wasn't in trouble for disobeying orders. The problem was that Tim was smart enough to know that, if he hadn't been shot, he _would_ have been raked over the coals for what he'd done, even if he _had_ saved Ducky and Jimmy. ...and Gibbs could admit to himself that Tim probably had done just that. Maybe Ducky and Jimmy would have been safe enough behind that crumbling piece of wall, but the bullets had been hitting so close, and those drug dealers likely wouldn't have hesitated to kill them all just for a chance at stopping them from finding the drugs the petty officer had hidden from them.

It took him about half an hour to get to the clinic. It was out of DC and in a more rural area, providing more space, more quiet...more green space for the people who were trying to recover.

All this time that had already passed...it made Gibbs question how much Tim _would_ recover. Had he paid the ultimate price for trying to save someone else?

Gibbs walked into the front entrance.

"Hi, I'm Jethro Gibbs. I was called."

The nurse at the desk smiled.

"Yes, Mr. Gibbs. The room is down the hall to your right. You're looking for room 107. Denise is waiting for you."

Gibbs nodded and strode down the hall. He saw a nurse standing outside a room.

"Agent Gibbs?" she asked.

"Yes. What's going on?"

Denise smiled. "Tim had another of his dreams, flashing back to the time when he got shot. According to his file, it's remained a major source of stress for him...and tonight, it woke him up. He was disoriented and afraid...and that makes him start to question whether or not he's alive. I'm not sure why there's that connection, but according to Dr. Khalid, whenever he has this dream, he becomes afraid that he's dead. ...not that he believes he _is_, but he's afraid that he might be."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Tell him that he's not in trouble, I guess. He's a new patient here. We're not quite sure what the routine is going to be. You've had more interactions with him in this state than we have."

Gibbs nodded and took a breath.

"He's awake?"

"I'm not sure, actually. His eyes are closed, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. He's kept them closed most of the time."

"Okay." Gibbs opened the door and walked into Tim's room.

Tim was curled up on the bed. His position was actually a bit worrisome. It was very similar to how he'd been when he had believed he was dead.

"Tim?" he asked softly.

Tim sucked in a sharp breath. Startled.

"It's Gibbs," he said, keeping his voice low.

"I got shot," Tim whispered.

"I know you did."

"You told me to stay down."

"Tim, open your eyes."

"I don't want to see it again."

"I can't guarantee you won't."

"I hate it. I keep...and I can't keep it straight in my head."

"Part of that is the drugs."

"I have to stay on them!" Tim said, sounding afraid. "I don't want to think I'm dead...falling apart...rotting away and trapped in my body!"

"Tim, you don't have to think you're going to do that."

"I did once! I got shot and I thought I died! Am I in trouble?" he asked, his voice small.

"Open your eyes, Tim. Look at me."

Tim did so, but he was clearly afraid of doing so.

"No bullets flying, Tim."

Tim shook his head...but then was clearly hit by dizziness again.

"You're safe...and you're alive."

"I know."

"...and if you hadn't been shot...you probably would have been in trouble...but anything that you might have done wrong..." Gibbs stopped himself. Tim wouldn't separate the idea that he wasn't going to be punished because of his injury from his injury being a just punishment. He could see that now. "Tim, you need to let them take you off the olanzapine."

"No! No, I don't want to..."

"You need to, and you'll be fine. You won't believe that you're dead again...and you'll be able to think and you'll be able to get rid of being so dizzy. You need to take that step, McGee."

"But...but it's...so..."

Gibbs sat on the bed. Tim's fear was understandable but it was hard to fight against. He didn't know enough about what would happen to say for certain that Tim wouldn't experience that delusion again. The fact that he'd gone through it once was enough to make him worry about it. He couldn't blame Tim for being terrified.

He reached out and touched Tim's scar. Tim flinched, almost as if he'd been pained by the touch.

"This...is a miracle, Tim. Not many people survive it."

"Maybe I wasn't supposed to. Maybe that's why I thought I was dead. I was _supposed_ to die."

"No. I don't believe that. It's a miracle that you survived and you're going to be okay. It will take time...but you have to start. Dr. Khalid thinks that you're ready to start getting off the olanzapine. Trust him. Trust us."

"What if you're wrong?"

"You have people looking out for you. We're watching your six."

"What if that's not enough?" Tim asked.

"It will be."

"I don't want to get shot again."

"You won't." _Not like this at least..._

"I'm so dizzy."

"Let them do what they need to do to help you. Trust us, okay?"

Tim closed his eyes again. He touched his scar, tracing the shape of it.

"Trust us, Tim."

Tim opened his eyes. For once, the expression was more like he'd been. His gaze was direct.

"Okay," he whispered.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

The next morning, they began weaning Tim off the olanzapine...and they had him with a psychiatrist every day, helping him learn to resist the fear that he'd become lost in the delusion again without the drugs.

...and perhaps to _everyone's_ surprise, not just Tim's, the delusion _wasn't _reasserting itself as the dosage became lower and lower. In spite of Tim's stress, in spite of his fear, he was not convinced that he was dead. This didn't remove his dreams, his almost-constant worry about whether or not he was in trouble, but it did remove a major source of anxiety for his friends and family. None of them wanted to see Tim return to that strange state that had governed his actions for far too long. He still wasn't his former self, but that particular improvement was a distinct relief.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Three weeks later..._

"Okay, Tim. That's the last time you have to get this stuff in your system. How do you feel about that?" Denise asked.

"I don't know." Tim rubbed at his scar. It was a nervous tic of his that nothing had managed to remove so far. "What now?"

"Just like usual. We're getting you back to full form."

"Can I?" Tim asked.

"A lot of it, yes. I don't know how much; so don't ask," she said with a smile. "How do you feel about starting some real walking today?"

"I'm still dizzy."

Denise nodded. "We think that some of it we can help you overcome by basically retraining your brain to balance you properly. Some of it will just have to wait until the lesions fully heal."

"What about surgery?"

"That's still an option, but you've had so much intrusion into your brain...the doctors would really like to avoid more. It's risky."

"But wasn't the drug risky, too? I mean...they didn't know if it would work."

"True, but if they get it wrong in your head, you could die, become paralyzed... With the olanzapine, if it showed no progress, they'd just take you off it as quickly as they could."

"I want...to be better," Tim said, sounding discouraged. "The more I can think, the more I know that I'm not...better. I'm...I'm dumb!"

"No, you're not, Tim," Denise said firmly.

"But...But I can't think right! I can read, but the words...sometimes, I can't figure out what they mean. People talk and...they just don't make sense!"

"Tim, we've talked about that. It's a matter of practice. They gave you an IQ test just last week. You scored quite high."

"Not in everything."

"No. You were slow in some sections and you're building up your working memory again, but they'll give you another one in a couple of months and I think you'll be surprised at how much better you do."

Tim sighed.

"Tim, what's _really_ wrong?"

Tim didn't answer. He just stared down at the floor, his fingers absently running back and forth over the scar on his head. Denise sat down beside him and put her arm around his shoulders.

"Talk to me, Tim."

"It's like I'm...I'm looking through a veil," Tim whispered. "Not...like before when it was thick and hard to see through, but I feel like I'm trying to think through layers of...of _stuff_ that keeps me from really getting it. I know that I shouldn't be worried about Gibbs being mad at me, but I am. I'm _always_ worried about him getting mad at me, even when he's there telling me he's not. I have to learn how to balance again. I have to learn how to walk again. I have to let my brain heal and help me think right again. ...but what if I don't have the time? What if something else happens? What if I think that dying is the only way again? What if–?" Tim's eyes filled with tears and he looked around his room. "What if this is all there is?"

Denise let Tim lean against her and she patted his shoulder encouragingly.

"Oh, Tim. You can't think like that. I know that you're afraid...afraid of things you probably can't even really articulate right now, but you have so far to go. You aren't even close to being at the end of what you can do."

Tim took a couple of shuddering breaths and let them out slowly.

"Don't worry about comparing the way you are right now with the way you were. What you need to do is accept the way you are and take the steps you need in order to get further."

Tim shook his head. "The way I am is...awful."

"I know it's discouraging, but you have to start somewhere. If you feel you're starting at the bottom, then at least, you know you can only get higher."

"People are...mad...uh...frustrated with me," he said.

"Who?"

"My friends...when they come. They want me to be normal, and I'm not. It bothers them. They don't stay very long. They leave fast. I...I know it's because of me...because of how weird I am."

Denise stayed quiet, letting Tim talk. This was more than he'd talked almost ever that she was aware of. His problems with keeping his mind focused had meant that he spoke less than he might otherwise. Even if he couldn't see it himself, he was definitely improved even just in the few weeks since he'd come to the rehabilitation center.

"I think...they wish I'd died."

"No, they don't."

"Maybe not at first, but they don't like that I'm like this, and I think they think it would be better if I had just died."

Tim pressed hard on his scar and closed his eyes tight.

"Sometimes...maybe they're right. Maybe I shouldn't have...lived. I thought I was dead. Maybe that was the way I should have gone. Maybe it was a mistake that Jimmy saved me. Maybe they should have let me bleed to death. It wouldn't have taken very long."

"Tim, I want you to listen to me. Okay? Are you listening?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Your friends and your family do _not_ want you dead. It was _not_ a mistake that you lived. It was a miracle...a good miracle. You have to struggle with getting better and I'm sure it's hard for you, but don't think that it's a mistake you survived."

"I want to be me again," Tim whispered.

"You _are_ you, Tim. Not the same as you were, but you're still you. Don't forget that." She squeezed his shoulder again. "Now, are you ready to start walking?"

Tim sniffled and nodded. "Okay."

"Good."

Denise wheeled Tim to his physical therapy and then went back and made some calls. Tim's beliefs were often deep-rooted and difficult to get him to let go, and if he was starting to believe that everyone wanted him dead, it could prove detrimental. It was important for Tim's friends to stop this idea before it had time to become engrained...if it wasn't already.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"All right, Tim. That's enough for today," Mark said. "We're going to get you running in no time."

Tim sighed as he sat in his wheelchair. He didn't say anything in response.

"Come on, Tim. You did a good job today. It's your first real attempt at getting back to full form, especially after your stint on the olanzapine which really screwed up your balance. You managed to walk before somewhat, from what I heard. This is just getting you on your feet again."

"Can you make my brain work right?" Tim mumbled.

"That's what I'm doing. Retraining your brain. You just need time."

"Yeah. Sure."

"Hey, is this the place?"

Tim looked up at the voice. He recognized it.

"Tony...you're here?" he asked.

"Course I am, Probie. I was told that this was the place to be."

"By who?"

"A little bird."

Tim furrowed his brow in confusion...and then frustration as he realized that he shouldn't be having this trouble following what Tony was saying. Tony's smile faltered slightly and then he grinned.

"You're all done for today, McGee?"

"Yeah," Tim said.

"Great! I'll take you back to your room!"

"Okay."

Tim felt Tony push the chair forward and he gripped the arms tightly to keep from feeling like he was going to tip out of it. He knew he wasn't, but sudden motion made him feel very unstable.

"You all right?"

Tim managed to make a positive sound. Not really a word, but a sound.

"You want me to slow down?"

"No. It's fine."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"Hey, I'm the only one here right now, but everyone's coming. Is that all right?"

"Everyone?"

"Yeah. Gibbs, Ziva...Abby...Ducky...Jimmy. People you'd expect."

"Why?"

"To talk to you. ...but I wanted to talk first."

"Too many talking at once. I'll lose track."

"We know. We'll make sure you can follow us."

They got to Tim's room, and Tony helped Tim sit on a chair. It had to recline a bit so that Tim didn't feel like he would fall out of it. Tony didn't try to speak until Tim was settled. Tim closed his eyes, trying to restore his equilibrium after all the movement.

"Tim?"

It had been a few minutes of absolute silence, and Tim was pretty sure he could open his eyes without worrying about the room spinning.

"Yeah?"

"I want to tell you something, but I want to make sure you're really listening to me. Okay?"

Tim opened his eyes and carefully shifted position until he was able to look at Tony comfortably.

"What?"

"I am..._so_ glad that you're alive."

Tim blinked at him. Tony had spoken slowly and very clearly, but he was surprised to hear it.

"I saw you get shot. I thought you were dead...like Kate. I didn't think there was a chance that you'd survived." Tony paused. "Are you following me?"

"Yes," Tim said softly. He wasn't sure he liked hearing about getting shot from someone else's perspective.

"Okay. When I realized that you weren't dead...all I wanted to do was make sure that you stayed alive. Then, when you were so sure that you _were _dead...it was...really hard to...to see you so confused, so...miserable. ...but I never wanted you to be dead. I never wished that you didn't survive."

Tim stayed silent. He had understood everything Tony said...but it was so strange to see Tony so earnest...so..._not_ joking. It was almost as strange a feeling as it had been to be seeing through that thick film before. Things weren't _right_ because Tony wasn't acting how Tony usually acted.

"Tim?"

"Yeah?"

"Did you understand?"

"Yeah."

"Do you believe me?"

"I don't know."

"Why?"

"You don't...do this...don't _talk_ like this usually. You're...joking more."

"I know, but I'm serious, and I mean it. I wouldn't lie about this."

"I know...but I'm not normal, Tony," Tim said, plaintively. "I'm not what I want to be. I feel...slow. Stupid."

"You're not."

"What if I can't go back to NCIS?"

Tim looked at Tony and was surprised when he smiled.

"You can make it. ...but you know what? If you don't...you can do something else...and we won't go away."

"I don't want something else."

"We don't know what's going to happen, Tim. It's going to take some time. But no matter what, we're not going to give up on you. So don't give up on yourself."

Tim didn't get a chance to answer because there was a knock on the door, and the rest of the team came in. To Tim's surprise (and relief), they weren't noisy. Even Abby had toned down her usual effervescence. They took turns talking to him. At first, it was simple stuff, and Tim relaxed a bit as they brought him up to speed on some of the things that were happening. ...but after about half an hour, the conversation took a sharp turn into something more serious.

"McGee?" Gibbs asked.

Tim looked at him. "Yeah?"

"You're not in trouble. Remember that?"

"Yeah...but I forget...and even when I remember...I can't help but worry about it," Tim said. "...and it's dumb."

"No, it's not, Timothy," Ducky said. "You're reacting to a traumatic event, one that not only nearly led to your death but also has led to damage in your mind. You need to remember that you've made it a long way so far, and we understand."

"But you don't _like_ it," Tim said. "...and I don't, either. I hate how I am."

Abby hugged him tightly. "Tim, it's okay. How you are...it's not how you always _will_ be, and we're here for you!"

"It's not okay, Abby," Tim said. "My mind is all screwed up...and I know it is. Before...at least, I didn't know...but I do now, and I hate it!"

"We do not," Ziva said. "We want you to improve, but we do not _hate_ that you are here. We are so glad that you are alive."

"...and I'm really sorry, Tim," Jimmy said softly.

"Sorry...for what?" Tim asked.

"For being where you had to protect us. I wish I could not be there."

"You saved me," Tim said. "You kept me from jumping. I wanted to...just to see if would work."

"But you don't seem very happy now, Tim, and I really wish that I could...fix it...but I can't. I don't know how."

Ducky patted Jimmy on the back.

"You can't know how. No one does," Tim said.

"But I'm sorry anyway."

"You don't have to be," Tim said.

"Do you wish that I hadn't stopped you?" Jimmy asked.

"I don't know," Tim said. "I just want...to be...normal again."

"You can be, lad."

"But maybe not all the way!"

"Perhaps not, but we cherish your presence and we will be thrilled with whatever progress you make."

"And if you wish to make more and want our help, we will be here," Ziva added. "You are my friend, Tim. I would not give that friendship up."

Tim looked at Gibbs.

"You're not in trouble."

"Even if I can't get better?" Tim asked.

"No matter what, McGee," Gibbs said firmly. "If you don't get better, that's not something you'll be punished for. If you do get better, we'll all be happy about it. Don't mix up what happened to you with NCIS rules and regulations. They don't have anything to do with each other."

"I don't like this," Tim said emphatically.

Gibbs looked Tim straight in the eye with an expression that brooked no further argument.

"You won't be like this forever, McGee."

"How can you know?"

"I know. Okay?"

"But what if..."

"You'll be better...and not one of us resents you for the time you're taking."

Tim felt his throat tighten and his lip started trembling.

"I'm scared," he said. "I'm so scared."

Abby hadn't let him go since hugging him and she renewed her hold on him.

"We're here, Tim. We always will be. No matter what."

Tim started to cry...and crying made it harder for him to focus. The words that were spoken after that washed over him without meaning. For a few minutes, all he could do was...try not to cry. He started running his fingers over his scar again.

Then, he heard a voice in his ear. Very soft, but it penetrated the tears.

"You aren't alone in this, Tim. If you try you'll make it."

Tim closed his eyes and tried to believe.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

_Three months later..._

The terrified wordless scream pulled Ducky out of a sound sleep, and he took a few seconds to understand what was going on. Then, he knew and hurried out of his bedroom to the spare room where the scream was repeated two more times before he could get through the door.

"Timothy!"

Tim was lying flat on his back, his eyes wide open and unseeing, both his hands covering his scar. Ducky came over to the bed and tried to pull Tim's hands down, but his body was so tense that it was a struggle to get Tim to move. He screamed again, and Ducky could see that whatever this terror was, it wasn't going to be broken easily. Tim was locked in its grip. He sat down beside Tim on the bed and massaging Tim's forehead, murmuring soft comforting words that might calm him from this fear. Then, in one swift movement, Tim's hands shifted from his forehead to Ducky's arms. He still didn't speak. He still didn't really wake up. ...but it was a sign of him _trying_.

Ducky began massaging Tim's scar, and, as he'd suspected, Tim's eyes closed and he started to relax. After about five minutes, Ducky thought he could see Tim shifting from asleep to awake. His eyes started to open and then he surged upward. He pulled his hands away from Ducky's arms and stared at them, breathing heavily.

"Timothy? Can you hear me?"

"They're...they're still there. They're not gone."

"What aren't gone?"

"My hands...they were falling apart. My body was...falling apart...I was...my soul was crumbling to dust and I was...disintegrating." Tim began to cry and he put his hands on his scar again. "I was dead and I was decomposing and I was stuck there...watching it all happen...feeling it happen."

"You're not dead, Timothy," Ducky said.

Tim seemed not to be hearing him, really. He was still trembling with fear, breathing irregularly. He began to rock back and forth in agitation, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Ducky put his arms around Tim and slowed down his rocking, put it into more of a rhythm.

"It's all right, Timothy. It's all right," he said soothingly.

Tim wasn't calming down, however, and Ducky decided to get Tim up.

"Come on, lad. Let's go."

Tim was still shaking, but he stood up at Ducky's urging and walked with him to the bathroom. Ducky turned on the water in the sink and pulled Tim's hands down from his forehead and put them under the running water. For a few seconds, Tim didn't even react, but then, he cupped his hands, caught the water and splashed it over his face. Ducky let him go as he splashed more water over his face. His breathing calmed down. He cupped his hands a few more times...and then, turned off the faucet and leaned over the sink, letting the water drip from his face and his hair.

"Feeling better, Timothy?"

Tim nodded.

"Dream is gone?"

Tim shook his head and spoke in his new slow, deliberate way. "It's never gone...not completely. I'm not going to be normal again, Ducky. I should just quit NCIS and find something else to do. I'm so...not like I was."

"Timothy, it hasn't been that long yet."

"Seven months. More than half a year. That's a long time."

"Not when it comes to recovering from brain injury."

"I feel so...lost. I'm not...good enough to be what I was. I'm stupid and slow."

"You're not stupid, Timothy." Ducky was happy to be able to be completely honest about that. As Tim had continued to heal, his ability to access the information he already had in his mind had improved dramatically. The problem remained, of course, the speed at which he _could_ bring that information to the fore. He struggled with that still, but it _had_ only been seven months. That was only a short time for healing to take place.

"Yes, I am."

"No. You are as intelligent as you were before you got shot."

Tim twitched at the mention of what had happened. He had not been able to move beyond the trauma of getting shot. In spite of the fact that many people had amnesia and forgot the immediate memory of the trauma, Tim had somehow managed to hang on to that memory and it gave him intense nightmares that he couldn't escape and caused him anxiety when he was awake. So far, his therapy had not really helped him in that respect. His psychiatrist was doing his best, but no luck so far.

"I'm messed up, Ducky," Tim said, still staring at the sink. "I don't...know what to do anymore. I don't... It's so hard to...to think about things and..." Tim sniffled. "...and I...I want to be...myself again."

"Do you regret your decision to protect Mr. Palmer and myself?"

"No. ...but I didn't...know it would be...like this. Maybe I was wrong."

"I don't know, Timothy. Because you _were_ there, we'll never know if we would have been injured or killed, but that plain fact of the matter is that you _were_ there. You _did_ protect us. We owe our lives to you."

"...but I don't have a life anymore. I'm...alive...but I'm not living. Ducky, I'm as stuck in a living body as I felt like I was in a dead one. ...and I keep...dreaming of it, dreaming of being dead. I can't stop...remembering what I saw in that...moment. I..." Tim shuddered.

Ducky furrowed his brow. While it wasn't his job to help Tim find his way back to full physical and mental health, he couldn't bear to sit idly by and watch as this man struggled to get through his trauma.

"Timothy, come with me. There's no need to stay in here when we can sit comfortably in my living room."

Tim nodded and straightened. As he walked beside Ducky, it was encouraging to see his stride relatively confident. He still had more than his share of dizzy spells, and he was far from being in great physical shape, but he could walk with ease again, and that was great progress.

"Sit down, lad."

Tim sat on the couch and stared at the floor.

"Timothy...tell me what you remember of that day."

Tim shook his head.

"Please, Timothy?"

"Why? You were there. You saw what happened."

"Yes, but I don't know what _your_ perception was."

"Why does that matter?"

"Because I think it will be helpful to understand what you think happened and compare it to what I remember."

"You think I don't remember it right?"

"I don't know. That's why I'd like to hear your recollection."

Tim started rubbing at the scar on his forehead, a sure sign of his anxiety, but he began to talk.

"We were...investigating the murder of...a petty officer. He was killed in his own yard. That rock wall. While we were looking around, three men came and started shooting. We all hid behind the wall, but the part you and Jimmy got behind was too small. You were both in the line of fire. You couldn't get anywhere else. I remembered the way that...the...that man had been shot...with no warning. I was sure you'd be killed, too. I left Tony and moved to where you were. Gibbs told me to stay where I was, that you'd be okay. I disobeyed his orders. You were moving when I told you to. I tried to fire. I got distracted and I got shot for it. I saw the man...pull the trigger. I saw him. I couldn't move. I couldn't duck. I got shot."

Ducky smiled. Even if Tim _was_ greatly changed from how he'd been. There was one thing that remained depressingly constant: his assumption that he had messed up somehow. Only in this case, it was aggravated by his injury and a skewed memory.

"No, Timothy. There is a part you've missed."

"What did I miss?"

"The part where you stepped in front of me. The part where you literally saved my life because I couldn't move fast enough to get behind that wall. I can't speak for your state of mind, but it wasn't distraction that caused your injury. I saw you move to protect me...and _that_ is when you were injured. It was not that you didn't do your job well enough, but that you were doing it almost _too_ well. That man knew that by focusing on those of us who were clearly unarmed he could distract those who were, giving his companions more of an opportunity to take us all out at once. You risked your life, and almost lost it, saving mine. I am grateful for that...and I'm sorry that you've paid such a high price for it. ...but Timothy, stop thinking that it was your mistakes that led to your current situation. It wasn't. It was your willingness to sacrifice. You do not _deserve_ to be the way you are at present. You deserve the best that you can achieve. I don't know what that might be, but I do know that you can't hold yourself back because a part of you thinks you deserve punishment."

Tim hunched his shoulders and kept his gaze on the floor. He didn't look up. He didn't move. He didn't even deny Ducky's words.

"Timothy? Is that what you've been doing?"

With a loud exhalation, Tim began to sob. Ducky quickly got up and moved to sit beside him.

"Oh, Timothy. It's all right to be afraid. It's all right to worry. ...but it's _not_ all right to believe that this is what you deserve."

"But...if it's not that...then, why am I like this?"

"Because things don't always go as we want them to. Sometimes, we have to face that good men don't get what they deserve. ...but I think you can achieve so much more...if you'll let yourself."

"I don't want to be like this," Tim whispered through his tears. "I hate the way I am, the way I feel. I hate it."

Tim ran his fingers over his scar again, letting the tears run unchecked down his cheeks. He leaned against Ducky. His despair was palpable, and Ducky hated seeing him like this. For all his encouraging words, it _was_ hard to watch Tim go through each day with such a changed manner. Personality changes were sometimes permanent after brain injury. Sometimes, not. Time would tell, but Tim was the one who had to struggle through that time. The others were there watching, but they weren't the ones who had to _fight_ those battles.

...but he wasn't lying when he encouraged Tim to think positively. It was just something he had to remind himself of as well.

"Timothy, you don't have to feel this way forever," he said. "If there was no hope of further progress, your doctors would have said so. They haven't. You have more to gain."

Tim took a deep shuddering breath, much in the manner that a child would as he tried to stop crying.

"I hate dreaming that I'm dead."

"I don't blame you in the least, Timothy. That's hard to bear, I'm sure. Just hold on and keep trying."

Tim nodded. Ducky smiled and gently moved Tim's hand away from his scar. To Tim's credit, he managed a trembling smile at Ducky's motion. They'd been trying to break him of that nervous habit. It was a small problem in the larger scheme of things, but it was something that could be done...maybe.

"Are you ready to try sleeping again?"

Tim shook his head.

"No. I don't want to sleep any more tonight. I don't want to dream...to remember."

"Very well. What will you do until the morning comes?"

Tim shrugged.

"That's not an answer, Timothy."

"Maybe I'll practice reading. I'm still having trouble focusing on the words. My eyes wander sometimes."

"All right," Ducky said. He'd hoped Tim would sleep, but in his current state, perhaps reading would be the thing to calm him down. "What are you going to read to me, then?"

That finally elicited a normal Tim expression. His eyebrows went up for a moment and then his brow furrowed in confusion.

"I know that your therapist has been having you read aloud to help you focus. I am here to be a willing audience."

"You must be tired, Ducky. I don't want to...keep you awake."

"If I feel tired, I'll fall asleep, lad. Choose a book. You should know by now that I will not criticize your choices or your skills."

Tim nodded. He did know that...which was why he was staying with Ducky. Ducky saw it as repayment for Tim's protection, but he knew that Tim would feel more comfortable with Ducky than others at NCIS, and he couldn't stay alone yet.

Wiping at his eyes, Tim got to his feet and walked to one of the bookcases. He grabbed the sides with both hands and tilted his head so that he could read some of the titles. Then, he straightened and pulled a large book off the shelf. He carried it over to the couch and opened it up at random.

Ducky looked at the title of the book.

"_Lend Me Your Ears_?" he asked.

Tim smiled a little. "These are supposed to be out loud. At least, they'll be more interesting that way."

"Fire away."

Tim nodded and started to read. He was slow and halting, not because he _couldn't_ read the words, but because he couldn't keep focused on them. The lesion in his visual cortex had healed a great deal, but there was some remaining damage still. Dr. Khalid was contemplating surgery to help that last bit, but dabbling in that area of the brain could leave Tim completely blind...and that would be much worse. It was possible that Tim could simply retrain himself to focus on the words, but it was slow going at the moment.

"'All things, O priests, are on fire. And what, O priests, are all these things which are on fire?

"'The eye, O priests, is on fire; forms are on fire; eye-consciousness is on fire; impressions received by the eye are on fire; and whatever sensation, pleasant, unpleasant, or indifferent, originates in dependence on impressions received by the eye, that also is on fire.'"

Tim stopped, but there was a kind of stillness to him that was different from when his mind wandered. He traced the words and then turned to another random page. Ducky was surprised, but he didn't feel that he had to force Tim to finish if he didn't want to. He began reading a much more famous speech, that of Marc Antony at the funeral of Julius Caesar.

"'Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;  
>I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.<br>The evil that men do lives after them;  
>The good is oft interred with their bones;<br>So let it be with Caesar.'"

Again, Tim stopped and considered the words. Then, he continued to read. Slowly, carefully...but Ducky was surprised to note that he didn't falter all the way through the speech, through the words of the citizens. There wasn't much inflection, and it was clear that Tim was using all his concentration to keep his focus on the words, but it was better than Ducky had ever seen him do before.

When he finished, he sat back and closed his eyes, clearly tired out by the effort. Ducky didn't speak. He let Tim sit there, mostly relaxed. ...and after a few minutes, his breathing deepened and he fell asleep. Ducky brushed his hand across Tim's forehead. Tim twitched slightly when Ducky touched his scar, but he stayed asleep.

"Sleep well, Timothy," Ducky said softly. "Sleep and heal."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

_Five months later..._

Tim took a deep breath...and then another deep breath. Then, he started rubbing at his forehead.

"Stop it."

Tim put his hand down. He took another breath.

"What if I can't do it?"

"You can. You've done it before."

"Only once...and I didn't do so well."

"Doesn't matter how well you do. It matters that you _do_ it. So come on."

Tim shook his head.

"I can't."

"Yes, you can."

"No. It won't work. It'll be..."

"It won't matter how well you do. No matter what."

Tim closed his eyes and backed away.

"No. No, I can't."

He felt the encouraging hands on his shoulders. They stopped him from escaping and gently propelled him forward to his previous position.

"Come on, Tim. You can do it."

"No."

"Yes."

Tim kept his eyes closed.

"Open your eyes, Tim. You can do it."

"I'll miss."

"Not necessarily, and I already told you that it won't matter if you miss."

"I don't want to. I'll remember again."

"I know you will. It'll be all right."

"I don't like remembering."

"I know. Just do it."

"Why are you making me do this?"

"Because you need to...and you'd know that if you were willing to admit it."

Tim starting rubbing at his scar yet again.

"Open your eyes, McGee."

Tim did and stared at the paper target at the end of the shooting gallery. Every time he looked down there, the defenseless target became the man who had shot him. ...and he froze, remembering what he had seen.

A gun was placed in his hands and he stared at it.

"Do it. Doesn't matter if you hit or miss. Shoot and keep your eyes open. That's all. You don't need to hide. You don't need to be afraid that you'll get shot. You won't. Just shoot at the target."

Tim knew his hands were shaking as he raised the weapon and aimed at the distant target. The target shaped like a human being. The target that was like the man who had shot him. The target that...

Hands on his shoulders.

"Just breathe through it, Timothy. You're in no danger here. Take a deep breath and let it out slowly."

Tim did so.

"Good. Again."

And again.

"Now, go ahead. Do it before you can convince yourself not to again."

The hands vanished. Tim lifted the gun, aimed and fired. His hands were shaking and he couldn't seem to lower the gun.

"Good, McGee. That was–"

Before the sentence could be completed, Tim fired again. And again. He continued firing until the clip was empty, his hands shaking so much that he knew he hadn't even hit the paper more than likely. The hands returned. One squeezed his shoulder. The other pressed on the gun until Tim was able to lower it. The roaring in his ears drowned out whatever might be spoken...even after the ear protection was removed. All he was conscious of was the gun in his hands and the target at the end of the gallery.

"Maybe it was too soon, Jethro."

"McGee?"

Tim took deep shaking breaths...and just stared forward.

"I can't do this," he whispered. "I can't face something like this again. I can't because...I'm not the same. I can't because I can still see it. I can't...because I still dream of being dead. I can't."

He allowed himself to be turned away from the shooting gallery and faced Gibbs and Ducky. He looked at them and shook his head.

"I can't be an agent anymore," he said softly. "I can't. It's been a year. I'm still trying to get better. I can't handle shooting a gun at a piece of paper. I can't be an agent. I quit."

He pulled away from Ducky and left the shooting gallery, in spite of the calls behind him. When he got outside, he took a deep breath and looked around, losing his sense of location for just one irritating moment before remembering where he was. He started to walk. He didn't really care where he went. It was a troubling development...this continuing problem. He had agreed to come and try firing a weapon in a completely safe environment...but it didn't matter because, as soon as he had the gun in his hands, he was back in that yard, facing down the man who shot him. It was no longer a safe environment. He was going to be killed.

He walked until he reached a bench. He sat down and started rubbing at his scar again. He thought about stopping, but he didn't care enough to bother. What was the point? He could walk. He could read. He could mostly think normally...albeit more slowly than he'd like still. ...but he couldn't get himself back. The trappings were there, but the essentials were gone. Perhaps forever. Even if there _was_ a possibility that he could be himself again, it would take too long for NCIS to want him. He should just quit now rather than wait until it was clear to everyone. Go out on his own terms and not let anyone come to resent him for all the time he spent using sick leave with no real possibility of coming back in the near future.

Tim sat on the bench for a few minutes and then got up and started walking again. Again, he just wandered through the streets. Not looking around, not noticing anything of his surroundings. Just walking until he reached a random park. He'd long since lost track of where he was. ...but it didn't matter. He sat down on another bench in the park. There were so many things that were still out of whack for him. He couldn't help wondering how people thought of him. He couldn't imagine that they were ignorant of the fact that he had changed.

"I sure know it," he said aloud.

"Know what, Timothy?"

Tim looked up and saw Ducky and Gibbs. He looked back down.

"You followed me," he said.

"Of course. You were upset."

"You think I shouldn't be?" Tim retorted.

Ducky walked over and sat beside him.

"I'm sorry that we did this before you were ready."

"I'm never going to _be_ ready, Ducky," Tim said. "It's obvious. Everyone knows it...and now I do, too. I can't go back to being a field agent. I'm a wacko."

"No, you're not...and you know that. Difficult as this is for you, you know that your problems do not lie with your sanity."

"Yeah, try saying that the next time I wake up shrieking at the top of my lungs because my body is crumbling to dust."

"McGee."

"No, Boss. I'm not going to fall for the pep talk this time. This whole thing has been a waste from day one. It would have been better if everyone had been trying to push me toward something else instead of pretending that I could go back to NCIS again."

_Thwack!_

Tim was shocked. He hadn't been on the receiving end of a Gibbs slap in...well, at least a year. He looked up...and then leaned back in surprise when Gibbs leaned over him.

"No one has been pretending, McGee," he said. "Even your therapists say that you've made a lot of progress and they're surprised you haven't plateaued yet. You've still got more to do."

Tim shook his head. "No! Stop trying to make this okay! It's not! Do you know that I couldn't see or hear anything in there? You put that gun in my hands and everything shrunk down to just..." Tim squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to let his omnipresent fear of death overwhelm him again. "...just that...standoff. Everything lost meaning but the gun and the target. I can_not_ deal with that, Boss! I can't be what you think I can be! I can't..." Tim lost the words to explain why this was all so impossible for him to reach.

"Can't what, Timothy?"

"I'm afraid of dying," Tim whispered. "I'm afraid of dying and of..."

"...being trapped in your body as you thought you were."

Tim nodded and the tears started up yet again. He hated this aspect of himself now. He cried a lot more. He just didn't seem to be able to hold the tears back any longer. He felt like crying and he did.

Gibbs sat down beside him.

"And don't tell me that it won't happen. I _know_ it won't...but that doesn't matter!"

"I wasn't going to say that, Tim," Gibbs said.

"Then, what _were_ you going to say?"

"Do you want to go back to NCIS or do you want to do something else with your life?" Gibbs asked. "...because if what you want is not NCIS, then, it's not our place to do anything that would get you back there. ...but if it is...Tim, you've got to keep trying. No one expects you to be back to normal. No one expects you to be exactly like you were before. They're all cheering for you to come back...but only if that's what you want. If you don't...then, tell us to stop."

"I can't do the job if I'm afraid. I can't do what I would need to be able to do. I will freeze, Boss. I will stand there and not be able to do anything if someone points a gun at me. ...because I'll be too afraid of dying. If someone pointed a gun at me and told me that I had to help them or die..." Tim couldn't hold back the new set of tears that were replacing the old ones as he confessed how debilitating his fear actually was. "...I'd help them...because I'm so afraid of feeling that way again. I'm so afraid of...all that."

There was a period of silence.

"That's...not what I asked you, McGee," Gibbs said slowly. "I asked you if you wanted to be back at NCIS or not."

"I'm too afraid."

"Do you _want_ it, McGee?" Gibbs asked.

Tim felt agitated and he got to his feet, pacing back and forth in front of Gibbs and Ducky who were both sitting on the bench, watching him.

"I don't want to die. That's almost all I can think about. I don't want to die."

"What do you want, McGee?"

The repeated question was aggravating...and Tim stopped pacing.

"I don't want to be afraid of dying!" he shouted. "I don't want to wake up in the morning and have to check to make sure I have all my limbs! I don't want to be so afraid every second of the day! I don't want to be like this!" He took a shaky breath and closed his eyes. "I don't want to feel like I'm almost dead already."

Another moment of silence...and then, he felt Ducky hug him gently.

"Is that how you feel, Timothy? Even now?"

Tim nodded.

"Why?"

"Because...things just...don't _feel_ right. People act differently around me...as if I'm a stranger. ...and I am. I'm different...and it's like a part of me did die, like I'm just kind of a...a placeholder for the real Tim who's gone now."

Ducky's hands directed him back to the bench.

"Is this a new feeling or has it been like this the whole time?" Ducky asked patiently.

"Not new."

"Have you always felt like this?"

"No...but it's not new."

"When did this feeling begin?"

"I don't know."

"Have you told your therapist about it?"

"No."

"Whyever not, Timothy?"

"Didn't seem important," Tim mumbled.

"Well, it _is_ important, and you need to tell him. Timothy, you need to open up and _talk_ about these feelings you have when they come. If you feel that people have changed, you can feel free to ask them why. ...and you should feel that it's safe to leave DC, even just for a while then return."

"I don't want to," Tim said, feeling worried.

"Why not? Think. What is it about leaving that frightens you?"

Tim did as Ducky asked, but it was hard to think about the visceral reaction he had to the idea of leaving DC. He was quiet for a while but neither Gibbs nor Ducky rushed him.

"Because...maybe...when I decided...to jump off the roof. I was sure that DC wasn't really DC, that it was somewhere else, someplace that looked just like DC but was different. It felt like someone was trying to trick me. It just felt wrong. Now...it's almost like...like DC is the only real place anymore. It's the only place that exists...the only place where _I_ exist. I don't know."

"And I take it that you've never mentioned this feeling either?"

"No."

"Timothy, you need to. In fact, I think you need to do it _now_, and make a start. These are not small things that you feel. They're not minor inconveniences. They're lasting and important. You need to deal with them...with the aid of someone who is trained to help you."

"Why will that help?" Tim asked.

It was Gibbs who answered, not Ducky.

"Because he'll show you what you can't see right now, McGee...and what we've been trying to show you."

"Your healing will take a long time, Timothy. It _has_ already. There are many tendrils to it. This is another one. Come and let's deal with it, shall we?"

Tim swallowed nervously and looked at Gibbs and Ducky. He didn't really understand why these things were so important, but he nodded...only because he trusted Gibbs and Ducky to help him.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

As the months went on, Tim's personality seemed to go through a major reboot. It was as if those fears and feelings had been acting like a dam and once they'd been pierced, many of Tim's attitudes began to reassert themselves. Not like they had been. It was becoming increasingly clear that some parts of Tim _had_ changed permanently. He was more withdrawn, less joking, a bit more abrasive. Gone was his fear of confrontation...because there were too many other things he feared more. It led to some fireworks as people adjusted to this new Tim. ...only it _wasn't_ a new Tim really. The core that had made Tim what he was still existed. Bickering generally ended with an apology on Tim's part. What they learned was that if Tim had even an extra moment to think about what was going on, he could calm down. Pressed against the wall, being hounded to make a decision, he couldn't tolerate it and would get angry to cover his perceived deficiency. Would these changes lead to someone who _could_ return to NCIS? No one knew, even after more than a year.

It seemed like Tim was trying to find his proper place in the world of the living again. It was a rough journey, full of setbacks and roadblocks.

Then, in what was a surprising move, Tim announced that he was going to visit his family for a while. It was the first time he'd indicated any willingness to leave DC, and while they were surprised by what seemed to be a sudden reversal, they were also happy that Tim was acknowledging more of the world than he had been. One of the biggest changes many had noticed was how much Tim had become focused on himself. Not in a prideful or arrogant way. It was just that he couldn't seem to take stock of the people around him. An awareness of the world, a willingness to move to another place, even if only for a while, it was an important step, one that his friends in DC hoped would bring about more positive changes.

Once Tim left DC, there was no contact from him at all. His parents would give updates on Tim's comings and goings, but it was a shock to go from being focused so much on Tim's healing, his well-being, his recovery...to nothing.

Six months after leaving DC, Tim's parents notified his friends that he was coming back. To their surprise, Sam and Naomi elected _not_ to give them any advance warning of what Tim might be like six months later. They didn't know what to expect.

They could only hope that it was good.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Jimmy was sitting in his apartment. It was late in the evening and he was enjoying some solitary time. No one breathing down his neck or wincing at something inappropriate he'd said. Just a time to relax...as much as he could. With Tim coming back in who knew what state, Jimmy found that he was getting a little bit anxious. He wanted to know what this was going to be like. He was just thinking about maybe making some popcorn and watching a movie when there was a knock on his door.

He was surprised because he wasn't expecting anyone, not even Breena.

Jimmy walked over to the door and looked through the peephole...and then, pulled open the door quickly.

"Tim! What are you...doing here? I didn't know you were back."

Tim looked a little sheepish.

"I was...going to call...but I guess that...I...don't remember your number. I dialed it, but it didn't go through."

"Oh...no. I got a new phone about a month ago. I guess I didn't think about telling you. You weren't here...and you weren't really talking to us, either. I...sorry."

Tim shook his head. He seemed as awkward as Jimmy himself felt.

"No. It's okay. ...but I'm glad that it's not because of my brain." He smiled a little...without much humor.

"It wasn't. It was mine," Jimmy said with a grin. "...so why did you want to come over?"

"Uh...do I have to stand in the hall?"

"Oh...no. Come in!" Jimmy stood aside. "Um...I don't have really great living accommodations, but I guess that you can still sit on a chair all right."

"Sure."

Tim perched uneasily on a chair, and Jimmy was surprised when he didn't say anything.

"Why are you here, Tim? Not that I mind, but..."

"I needed to talk to you."

"About what?"

"A few things...before I talk to everyone else."

Jimmy furrowed his brow. Tim _looked_ a lot more like himself, although the scar was still very prominent on his forehead. Likely, that would always be the case. In addition, Tim was speaking more like his old self...but not exactly. There was still something a bit off about him.

"What is it?"

"First, I'm sorry."

"For what?"

Tim opened his mouth to try and answer...but then he shook his head.

"I need to...to say everything in the right order, Jimmy...but I felt like I needed to apologize first. Let me explain."

"All right." Jimmy held out his bowl. "Uh...You want any popcorn?"

Tim laughed a little. "No. I'm fine."

"Okay."

"So...um..." Tim spread his hands out silently, looking a bit hapless, actually. Then, he rubbed at his scar for a moment before starting to say what he had to say. "I've been thinking...a lot...and I'm thinking more...and a bit...more clearly, I think. Um...and I realized that I've never said thank you for anything you've done."

"Oh, you don't need to, Tim," Jimmy said instantly. "That's just...I mean, it's my fault you got shot."

"No, it's not," Tim said, sounding almost weary. Jimmy got the sense that this was something he'd already spent a long time struggling with. Old news. "I'm the one who disobeyed orders. Ducky says that I stepped in front of him. I don't remember that. I thought that I remembered everything exactly as it happened...but I didn't. Somehow, my brain supplied images that aren't accurate, but they got cemented into my head. There's no way I could really have seen the guy all the way across the lawn, but I remember seeing him. ...but no matter what...it's no one's fault but his." That had the inflection of rote memorization. Tim had practiced saying that. "...and you and Ducky risked your lives to save me after I got shot. I was trying to protect you, but I fell...and you must have been in the line of fire again."

"Yeah. We were."

"Thank you...but there's more. When I was...still...thinking that I was dead. I was...I really couldn't fathom anything other than the need to stop what I thought was an indication of...of my death. I would have jumped off that roof. I really would have. I couldn't see anything that would really stop me. ...but you did. You saved my life, but you probably never knew if I was actually happy about that."

"Were you?" Jimmy asked, surprised that this question meant so much to him. He had taken time to talk about it with a therapist...but he and Tim really hadn't talked about it since.

"I wasn't for a long time after you saved me. Even after I...I knew I was alive. There's been so much to do...and there's still more that I have to do...but that's a different conversation. That's something I need to tell everyone. But I wasn't happy about it before...but I am now. Mostly. Sometimes, I still get frustrated with how far there is to go, but I'm better than I was, and I am grateful that you saved my life...that you saved me from myself. ...because I'd be dead if you hadn't been there. That's...what I needed to say to you because I haven't, and...and that's something I should have said. ...but it's been hard learning how to think about other people again."

"It's okay."

"It's not. It might be understandable...but it's not okay," Tim said sternly. He took a breath and stood up. "That's all I needed to say. I don't want to stay too long."

Jimmy stood up.

"Tim?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you ever watch movies anymore?"

"I wasn't a big movie watcher before, you know."

"I guess not... I was just about to...watch a movie. Some oldie. Usually TCM has one playing. You want to watch with me?"

Tim looked at him. "Why?"

Jimmy laughed a little. "I don't know...maybe because it's something that I can offer...that won't require we try to have any more stilted conversations."

Tim smiled. "Okay. What's playing?"

"Don't know. I was just about to find out."

Tim sat down on the chair again while Jimmy turned on the TV. Jimmy skipped through the channels and saw one playing _The Secret Life of Walter Mitty_, starring Danny Kaye. He looked at Tim.

"What do you think?"

"I've never heard of it," Tim said. "Unless I've forgotten."

"You have problems with your memory?"

Tim smiled slightly. "Not as far as I know...but I guess I _wouldn't_ know, would I."

Jimmy smiled, but there was just a little more bite to the comment than he would have expected, but Tim just stared at the TV. He didn't seem angry.

"You okay with watching this?"

"Sure."

Jimmy smiled and held out the bowl of popcorn.

"Want some?"

Tim looked at it, paused and then grabbed a handful.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

They watched the movie, and Tim seemed strangely transfixed by it. When it ended and Jimmy turned off the TV, Tim actually jumped, as if he wasn't ready for things to be over.

"You all right, Tim?"

"Yeah. I...just... It's over."

"Yeah."

Tim nodded and stood up, blinking more than usual.

"You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah. I haven't...actually..._watched_ anything in...a long time. I almost forgot what that felt like." Tim laughed a little. "I'm okay, though. Thanks for the movie...and the popcorn. I'll see you...later."

"When?" Jimmy asked.

"Tomorrow...sometime...if everyone can. I'm going to...call everyone and ask them."

"Where are you staying?"

"My apartment."

"You still have it?"

"Yeah. My parents decided it was worth keeping."

"Oh. You need a ride?"

"No. I'm fine."

"You sure? I can."

"No. I'm okay."

Tim grabbed his jacket and left without another word. After the door closed, Jimmy sat down again, and thought about what had just transpired. Tim was different...and yet much closer to how he'd been. What had gone on in Ohio? ...and what was it that he needed to say to _everyone_? Jimmy could see that he'd already essentially practiced what he'd had to say to Jimmy. It was completely sincere, but it was something that wasn't being said off-the-cuff.

Tim was ready to say something fairly momentous. That much was clear.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_The next evening..._

Tim peeked into the room and saw everyone sitting and talking quietly to each other. He was really nervous about this. He didn't know what to expect from this, but he was sure that he needed to say it all. The last few months in Ohio had convinced him of that...finally.

He took a breath. It wasn't that he thought they'd be upset or disappointed...but he was afraid they'd push him for more than he could give.

No putting it off. Tim swallowed and stepped into the room.

"Tim...what's going on?" Tony asked.

"Yes, what is it that you need to tell us all?" Ziva asked.

Abby bypassed the questions. She just ran over to him and hugged him tightly.

"Tim...you're looking so much better!" she whispered in his ear. "I'm so glad."

"Thanks, Abbs," Tim said.

"What is it, Timothy?" Ducky asked. "Mr. Palmer told us about your visit last night. What's happened?"

Gibbs said nothing. He just sat silently. Waiting.

Tim extricated himself from Abby's clutches and sat down.

"I've...been thinking," he said. "After I left here, I kept talking with therapists and...and stuff, and...and it helped me deal with the stuff that I still have been...trying to deal with. I can't...explain it all, but...there are some things I need to tell you...and if you could just let me struggle through it. I can't really say it all right the first time."

"Go ahead, McGee," Gibbs said quietly.

"Thanks, Boss," Tim said and tried to figure out where to start first. "I...still have nightmares. I've found that...that I get really focused on something...more than I used to. Whatever task I'm working on, that's almost all I can do at a time. I can't...listen to a person talking if I'm reading. Things like that. Dr. Gingras thinks that I can train myself to understand these things better about myself...and learn to keep an eye on the world around me...but it's going to take more time." Tim swallowed again. "I'm getting in better shape, physically...but it's been hard. ...and I'm different. I know Jimmy noticed it last night. That's...that's partly why I wouldn't talk to anyone while I was in Ohio. I kept hoping that there'd be some kind of...of miracle that would make everything better. There's nothing like that."

Abby stirred, but Gibbs put a hand on her shoulder to stop her. Tim smiled gratefully.

"I'm never going to be like I was. A bullet went through my brain...that can't go away completely...and I understand that now. I even can accept that now. Um...but it was hard. I had some really low moments, but...but Sarah came to visit once and she..." Tim laughed. "She got frustrated with me really fast because I was pushing her away, keeping her at arms length...trying to act like I had before but failing. She finally shouted that if I would just stop _trying_ to be like I was before and be was the way I was...everyone would be happier...including me. It wasn't...something I'd ever thought of. I have to...say that I didn't agree at first. I got mad and shouted some awful things back at her. Then, I left the house...and I drove away. I took the car and I drove, even though I wasn't supposed to drive. I drove out into the country and I just sat for a while."

Tim stopped talking. He wasn't sure if this was the right way to explain everything. Did they care about all this? Did they really want to know the details of how he had made this decision they still didn't know about?

"Go on, Timothy," Ducky said softly. "Please, continue."

"Okay. Mom found me. She sat next to me for a while without saying anything, even though I knew she was upset about what I'd done..."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"_Tim, Sarah's right."_

_Tim said nothing, wanting to be angry instead._

"_You keep trying to do and say what you think is the correct thing, but it's not and it feels false. To you. ...and I know that frustrates you. So why not just accept that things are different? If you stop focusing on what you're not and focus on what you already are, you'll be so much happier."_

"_I want to be who I was!" Tim said angrily._

_Naomi firmly turned Tim toward her._

"_You aren't, Tim," she said sternly. "You're not what you were before...but you are still my son. You are still Timothy McGee. Everyone changes over time. If you don't think so, try looking at yourself eight years ago and then five years ago. The difference is night and day! Stop trying to turn back the clock. You can't. No one can."_

_Tim looked at the ground and felt the tears come to his eyes yet again. "Superman could," he whispered._

_Naomi laughed sadly and pulled Tim into a hug._

"_Only in fiction, Tim. Only in fiction. Real life isn't so easy. Stop looking back. Look forward instead. That's where you're headed. If you keep looking backward, you'll only miss what you're heading toward."_

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"...and she was right," Tim said. "I was doing things wrong. I was thinking wrong...and I've been trying to work on that...along with everything else."

"So...what now, McGee?" Tony asked.

"Now...I'm ready to try looking to the future," Tim said.

"And where is that future?" Ziva asked.

Tim smiled. "To be honest, I don't know yet. What I'm going to try to do is come back here. When I think that I'm ready, I'm going to ask Vance to let me come back, but I don't know if I'll ever be ready to be a field agent again. I just know that I want to keep working with you all...and I don't want to give up the job I have...unless I have to. I want to be here...if that's okay."

Again, Abby flung her arms around him, always the most demonstrative of the group.

"It's okay, Tim!" she said happily. "It's more than okay!"

"I don't know if I can," Tim said quickly. "Getting my mind trained for that...for being at NCIS again...it's going to be hard. I'm doing a lot better with the physical stuff, but the psychological stuff is...it's hard. Some of the damage is probably permanent, and if it's too severe, then, I'll never be able to handle field work."

"If so, will you be all right with being something _other_ than a field agent, Timothy?"

Tim nodded. "Yeah. That's the big thing. I think I can accept other jobs now. ...but I don't want to have to give all of you up," he said. No matter what everyone else was thinking, _this_ was the most important thing Tim felt he had to say. "People tend to come and go...and friendships can fade...and I don't want that to happen here. You guys have...have stuck with me through a whole lot of...of really hard stuff. You're the best friends anyone could want...and I don't want to lose that."

There was a moment of complete silence. Then, Ziva stood quietly and walked over to Tim. She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.

"Never, Tim," she whispered softly in his ear. "Never."

"That's right, Probie," Tony said. "If you don't want to give us up...heck, we're not giving you up, either."

Tim teared up, but this time he didn't mind.

"Really?"

"Of course!"

"And what if I never _do_ get to the point where I can do what I did?" he asked. "What then?"

Gibbs answered. "We weren't trying to help you because of what you can do, McGee. We were trying to help because of who you are. That's not gonna change."

"If you are ready to take on this next battle," Ducky said, "we will all be there to help you...to whatever degree we can and however far you'll allow us. ...and that is the truth."

Tim looked around at them all, and then he looked at Jimmy who really hadn't said much.

"Thanks, Jimmy," he said. "I mean it."

Jimmy smiled. "You're welcome, Tim. Anytime."

Tim smiled back and nodded. Even with all the worries and fears he still had, he was genuinely glad to be alive.

"_It is necessary to have wished for death in order to know how good it is to live."  
><em>_Alexandre Dumas Père_

FINIS!


End file.
